


Something Old

by yellowb



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F, F/M, Steamengines, Steampunk, Steamships, vampirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-04-03 17:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowb/pseuds/yellowb
Summary: Something is turning back the clock. Consequences abound. Giles faces his archnemesis, and loses his pocket-square. SteamPunkUFFY.Written for valerie21601's EF Steampunk Spuffy challenge, although I may spend the whole fic getting there.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is likely to post slowly, and chapters go up first over at Elysian Fields -- there are seven there as I post the prologue here. 
> 
> Also, as with many works that begin in Season 4, there is arguably some dubcon -- enthusiastic but bewitched sex. I'll just state at the outset that magic here is more narrowly tailored than being intoxicated -- it doesn't effect every decision you make, only the specific area the spell was aimed at.

A tiny cog, as precisely symmetrical as a snowflake, hovered above the open watch mechanism, held by the tips of an equally delicate pair of goose-necked tweezers.  They trembled slightly with the pulse of the man who held them, though it would have been imperceptible in a less exacting context.  His eye appeared bulbous through a jeweler’s eyepiece.

“Could you repeat that last bit please, Willow?”

“Uh… ‘Depthing of the wheel teeth must now…‘  No, wait, we did that.  Oh: ‘Rock the tweezers to find out if the wheel is loose on the pinion…’” Willow trailed off, staring at the thick book before her.

“I don’t think that’s it,” said Giles.  “We want reassembly.”

“You’re right, I lost my place.”  She leaned forward to see the watch workings better.  “It’s all so tiny, so perfect. And we’re going to fix it.  This belonged to your grandfather?”

“Yes, and to his father before—”  A sudden popping sound made Giles’ hand twitch, and the cog flicked away, out of sight, as the desk lamp went dark.  “Fuck!” snapped Giles.   

“Watcher,” said Spike, appreciatively.

“Giles, it’s just a bulb.”

“Pardon my language, but that is the second time this week this dratted halogenic lamp has blown.  And if I’ve lost the— the—“

Willow turned the page to a large diagram.  “Escape wheel.”  

“Well, if I’ve lost the escape wheel, it could take years to track down another.”

“We’ll find it,” said Willow. “We’ll find the little escapee.  We’ll search—“

“Don’t. Move.” said Spike.  “Not a muscle.  You’ll step right on it.  I can see where it’s at.”

“Can you?  Can you tell me where?”

“Just behind your left foot, on the far side.  Don’t move your foot, just bend down and pat the carpet behind your heel … little further back.”

Willow’s face shone as she held up the cog.  “Got it!”

“Vampire vision,” said Spike.

Giles frowned at him; he reached for his pocket square to clean his glasses before remembering he was wearing an eyepiece instead.  “Yes.  Quite atypically helpful of you, Spike.”  Willow carefully put the object in his outstretched palm.

“Do love a well-made thing.  Be a shame to lose an original part.  Wouldn’t mind a closer look.”  Spike said the last with exaggerated nonchalance.

“I’ll go get a spare bulb.  Then we — then you can finish fixing the watch.”  Willow bustled off as Giles carefully positioned the escape wheel on a sheet of white paper, then glared at the lamp. 

Giles addressed the lamp directly.  “You:  you seduced me with your promise of better, state-of-the-art lighting.  Yet you have failed me repeatedly, and nearly thwarted the purpose for which you were purchased.”

“Well, tsk,” said the vampire.  “Never trust a come-hither appliance.  Now compare that lamp to your family watch — I wager it’s kept good time for roughly a century? Longer? And it needed what to keep going — a spot of cleaning?  Not to mention the elegance of the workings.  Hand-cut, I’d wager.” 

“Indeed.  It is enough to make one rather romanticize a simpler time.”  

Giles readied his tweezers to recapture the cog.   Willow began to swap out the bulbs.  “You could teach me, you know,” she mused.  “Now that you’re not a librarian — ‘cause, y’know, no more library! —  we could open up a professional old-timey watch shop.  Ye Olde Clock Repair.  It would be an adventure!  You can be the master clock-worker, and I’ll be your apprentice—“

The door banged open. Giles started, then sighed; he carefully put the tweezers back down.  Sunlight streamed in around the figure of the Slayer.  “Hey, Wil!  Hey, Giles …  you’re looking very mad-scientist there.”  Giles frowned at her.  “The monocle thingey.”

“’lo, Slayer,” called Spike, miffed.  “Could at least acknowledge me.”

“I brought you blood. I don’t need to be more acknowledgey than that.”

“You could, however, take up the antiquated art of knocking,” said Giles.  “It’s always remotely possible you might interrupt something delicate.  Or even private.”

“Pshaw.  What could you possibly be doing that’s private.” 

“I could be doing something private,” muttered Spike, watching her disappear into the kitchen.  The microwave beeped, and then whirred.

“Here,” said Willow.  “I found where we were.  The escape wheel goes back on its post, and then the other three gears go in from smallest to largest.  Just like you took them off.  Then there’s the whole hairspringey-thingey to deal with.”

Giles leaned forward, his hands and face intent as he reassembled the movement.  He turned it over and refit it to the casing.  He tightened the dog screws with a minuscule driver. Then he snapped the molded gold backing into place.  He gave the knob a gentle turn and opened the front.

“Ahhh!” said Willow, craning her neck.

“Nice steady tick,” said Spike, from his chair.

“Yes,” said Giles.  “That seems to have done it.”

Buffy stomped out of the kitchen and thrust a yellow Kiss-the-Librarian mug in front of Spike’s face.  “Here,” said Buffy.  She positioned the straw for him, and he glared up at her.  

“About time. Hope you got it warm enough.”  She scowled at him, but her search for a caustic reply was interrupted as the phone rang.  Giles went into the kitchen.  

“Well, I guess I’ll just be off to pick up the ingredients for that truth spell,” said Willow, giving the watch one last admiring look before heading for the door.  “Alright. I'll be back in the morning with donuts and motherwort. Bye, Buffy! I'll see you at home.”  

“Now see here—”  Giles' voice from the kitchen was agitated.

“But—”  

“I—”

“But—”

“Yes.  I do understand.  Very well.”  Giles slammed the phone down and came back out.

“That really didn’t sound very much like they ‘saw here,’” said Buffy.

“No.  No, they really didn’t,” said Giles.  He sighed.  “I’m afraid the Council requires my presence in England.  Immediately.  Under threats related to my green card.  I fly out of L.A. as soon as can be arranged, for an indefinite period.”  Giles turned to consider Spike.  “Which leaves us with the problem of what to do with Spike.  Buffy, I do think you’d be the logical vamp sitter.”

“Giles, you know I can’t keep a chained-up vampire in my dorm room.”

“I dunno,” said Spike, wriggling as lasciviously as he could while bound to a chair with twelve coils of rope.  “Sounds like a grand ol’ time.”


	2. Girl Night, Interrupted

Along with the mop and its bucket, Willow had filched — no. Along with the mop and its bucket, Willow had temporarily liberated the spring bar with the “CLOSED FOR CLEANING” sign from the janitor’s closet.  _Liberation_ was such a positive word—and she was working hard to be positive, or at least to hide her broken heart.  This spell was going to help.  She squooze the bar into the bathroom doorframe until it hung at chest-level, then ducked underneath and carefully shut the door behind her.  Hopefully any desperate co-ed seeking a tinkle would make a sprint for the floor below without considering the improbability of a midnight cleaning crew at the dorm.  

She surveyed the long, tiled room, then pushed the bucket down to the bend that led to the showers.  If she set up back around here, she could mop the pentagram straight down the drain when she was done.  She chose her spot, and opened the stained grimoire to a fresh pink sticky note.  She set about drawing the symbol; the red poster paint was gritty, in a satisfying way, from not having been sealed very well, and the color was muddied with just a dash of her own blood.  Proportionally _,_ the spell barely qualified as blood magic at all—but that little extra oomph couldn’t hurt.  She positioned pillar candles at each point.

She settled herself in the center, and placed plates of herbs around her, shutting her eyes to recite the verse.  Her mind drifted back to Oz’s empty dorm room as she spoke, the shock of hurt that had flooded her when she realized he wasn’t planning to return.  “ _… from this eve forth, my will be done.  So mote it be_ ,” she finished.

She still felt that hurt, that emptiness.  Nothing new took its place with the completion of the spell, no sense of control or new power.  She waited.  The empty tiled shower stalls stood before her unchanged.  Even by candlelight, she could tell they were slightly in need of a scrub.

She finally allowed herself a long exhale—and a scalding blast of hot, wet air whipped across her face, the bowl clattering away, the candles snuffed instantaneously.  There was no sound, just a soft dripping from one of the shower stalls she hadn’t noticed when there was light to see.  After a moment, she stumbled across the room, kicking something along the way, smacking straight into the wall when she turned too soon, until she found the light switch.  

The ring of candles had been destroyed, peeled apart like ragged lilies all the way to the floor.

 

***

 

“I will that this Q-Tip gets … unbendy?”   The Q-Tip listed half-heartedly sideways, with a sad fuzz of lint.  Willow’s chagrin was interrupted by a knock at the door.  “Come in!”

Giles entered, looking slightly disheveled.

“Giles, what are you doing here?”

“I came to speak to both you and Buffy, actually.”

“Did Buffy tell you about the beer, ’cause…”

“Uh, no; no.”  He shook his head as though to free it from unpleasant thoughts.  “Actually—“

“The truth spell!  I forgot all about the spell!  Giles, I’m so sorry.”

“Ah, yes—but as it turns out, that may have been fortuitous.  I received a call from the Council, with some disturbing news.  And although I am on my way to the airport now to join them in England, I wanted to come by in person to warn you against doing any magicks while I am away, however minor.”

“But—but that’s not fair!  I’m on probation?”

“No!  No, not at all.”  He smiled at her fondly.  “The news from the Council, the reason they have summoned me to England, is that something is badly awry in the mystical realm.  Spells, even by very experienced practitioners, are having very… shall we say, unpredictable, and in some cases disastrous, results.  I know it’s unnecessary to warn you against casual use of spell-craft, but on the remote chance that an emergency should arise, I did want to protect you from any possibility of harm.  To yourself or anyone else.”

Willow’s lips formed a soundless O.

The door banged open.  “Giles!” said Buffy.  “What brings you to campus?”

“Buffy. I came to speak to you, in part.  The Council was able to get me a flight this evening … and as it is international, I must endure the special circle of torment they call ‘security’ at the terminal.  I am on my way there now.  I’m afraid I have to ask you to begin looking after Spike this evening.”

“Do I gotta?” said Buffy.  “Can vampires even actually starve?”

“Buffy, he is chained on his back in my bathtub.  Though I lack a better alternative, it does not exactly comport with the Geneva Conventions.”

“Are those like Geneva cookies, with the dark chocolate?  Because those are way too good for Spike.”   Buffy dumped her backpack on her bed and herself alongside it.

“Very amusing,” said Giles.  “He’s going to need blood, and to move around now and again…”

“Do I clean his litter box before or after I feed him?”

Giles raised his voice.   “… as well as close observation. We really can’t know if he’s harmless if none of us are there to see him.  I have no objection to you staying in my guest room for the duration if you’d rather not take him elsewhere, but I must insist you assume primary responsibility for keeping a close eye on Spike.  I will call to check in and provide any needed advice.  Now, however, I really must be on my way.”

“Great,” grumbled Buffy as the door shut behind Giles.  “No hot date for Buffy.”

“Hot date?” said Willow.  “But we had plans.  Hanging out plans, remember?  Girl night?  A rented tear-jerker and some Chunky Monkey?”

“Right—right! Girl night! Plans!” said Buffy.

“You forgot.”

“Wil, you heard Giles:  duty calls.”  It was bad that she’d forgotten, she was a bad friend, but really…it was hard to go through someone else’s heartbreak.  Over and over.  The intervals of cheerfulness were so erratical and brief that Buffy spent them dreading their inevitable end. Not that she didn’t sympathize, but the dorm room was feeling pretty tiny these days.  She shoved some clean clothes into her backpack on top of the books.  “You know I’d rather be here than feeding and watering a neutered vampire, right?  But I gotta go.”  And find a phone, to cancel her date with Riley.  

She gave her friend a quick smile as she zipped up the bag.  

“Fine,” said Willow, sulkily.  Buffy did her best to ignore the muttering behind her as she left.

 

***

 

Buffy felt along the top of Giles’ front door until she found the little plastic box with the extra key.  When she’d called Riley to say she couldn’t make it, she was prepared for a swell of disappointment.  Instead she’d felt … lighter.  Like she’d been headed to class on a sunny day, but somehow boarded a bus for the beach instead.  It made no sense.  Riley wasn’t a chore; he was exactly what she should be looking for in a guy.  Straight-forward, cute, and nice.  A guy who picnicked.  And drove for fun.  In the sun.  A living guy who would actually freckle.  A little on the dull side, maybe, but he’d grow up into a … a grown-up.  (Later.  When she was ready for that.)  She pushed the door open, and made her voice ooze saccharine.  “Hoooney!  I’m home!”  

 

***

 

Xander said, “Willow, I know it's hard to see it right now, but everything you're feeling is because of you and Oz. Not because of Buffy and me or anybody. But eventually you'll meet somebody else, and it'll be better.” 

“That’s your Anya voice.  Your _be reasonable_ voice,” said Willow resentfully, kicking at a stray piece of gravel on the sidewalk.

Xander blinked.  He was going to have to pay more attention to how he spoke to Anya.   

They were just turning to walk up the path to Sunnydale’s faux-quaint ice cream shop when four men in fatigues rushed past in a full-on crouched run, accompanied by a blast of walkie-talkie static.  “Wow,” said Xander.  “That’s pretty intense costuming for…being so far off Halloween…oh.  Oh, no.”

“What?” said Willow.

“It’s just—if those are the guys who got hold of Spike, I better go warn Ahn—she might want to stay in tonight.”

“But … ice cream!  Ice cream?”

“Sorry, Wil—she’s really worried about those guys.  I have to go.”

 

***

 

Spike dreamily plotted the Slayer’s death from his position in the bathtub, closing his eyes against the ugly, dusty, modern light fixture that was really the only thing in view.  He was having trouble coming up with any truly lethal scenarios that held his attention.  He needed a method that was both Slayer-worthy and chip-friendly, and the two requirements didn’t mesh.  Somehow every time he’d try to visualize a satisfying scene involving one of the varieties of havoc he could currently wreak—poison, for instance—he’d find his mind drifting back to their recent fight on campus.  The solid thwack of their blows.  The surprisingly dense, seductive warmth of the sun on his skin.  The Slayer’s face, fierce and determined.  Her hair, myriad shades of gold as it moved in the light.  Faced with a theoretically unbeatable foe, she’d relaxed into the battle, become looser and more fluid and less predictable.  The memory replayed languidly, every movement stretching out like a lazy odalisque for his contemplation.

A rattle from the front door roused him, and he shook off the daydream.  “Hooooney, I’m home!”  

His lip quirked up at that. Taunting her back could be fun — not as good as fighting her, but if he kept it just below the level that would lead to his own dusty end… he let his voice take on a harsh, yet whiney, edge.  “Bout time!  Hurry it up.  I’m _starving_ in here.”  

He could hear her leisurely progress: the two thumps when she toed off her shoes by the door, the click of a couple lights flicking on.  He knew the table was still piled with books.  He imagined she trailed her finger along them as she walked; spell books and demonpedias, mystical histories, the heavy repair book still open to the exploded diagram of a pocket-watch.  Her hand gliding across the supple leather of the back of the sofa.  If he could talk her into letting him roam, it wouldn’t be that bad to spend some time here.  Giles had a comfortable home, a telly, good books; and Spike was eminently capable of sniffing out the better booze.  “You know,” she finally called back, “I’m really just not sure I care.” She didn’t sound half as irritated as he’d hoped.  

“Watcher didn’t even leave the telly on!  Downright inhumane.” 

“You’re a killer, Spike.  Just because you threw yourself on our mercy, doesn’t mean we owe you a good time.”  Her footsteps moved to the kitchen.  The fridge door opened, and thudded shut; he heard the distinctive glop-glop of cold blood being poured.  He imagined the face she made, the little off-kilter lines between her brows.  Inexplicably, the image made him hard.  “This was supposed to be an exchange, remember?  You were going to tell us what you knew about the commandos.”  The microwave pad beeped, and the machine began to whirr.  “Besides, we don’t really have to feed you at all.  I mean, vampires don’t starve to death, do they?  I asked Giles, and he never answered, but I’m pretty sure you’d just shrivel up into a little bitty vampire.”

“That would be _wrong_ ,” said Spike.  “You all are the bloody cavalry, remember? Helping’s what you _do_.”

“You haven’t exactly been helping us, Spike.”  The microwave pinged.  He was so hungry that even the smell of days-old pigs blood was making him salivate.

Spike slouched a little more disreputably, letting his legs fall wide; might as well give her a bit of a show.  Her heartbeat approached, and then suddenly sped up.  Awareness washed through him like a wave:  the drumming of Buffy’s blood; the sweet richness of her smell.  He’d know her approach anywhere, til the end of his days.  A blazing heart of fire hidden away in a slip of a woman.  He’d sensed it the moment he first saw her dancing.  And now she was here, in the doorway, filling his senses to bursting, her hair curled and loose and practically glowing, the slightest wry smile on her lips and that funny, funny nose and those eyes drawing him into their mysterious, shifting green seas—

“Buffy,” he whispered, suddenly hoarse. “Buffy.  _Marry me._ ”


	3. Spellbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to OffYourBird.

Buffy drifted through Giles’ living room.  Despite Spike’s transparent efforts to annoy her (and you had to give him credit, being essentially de-fanged and then chained up didn’t put a damper on his passion for conflict), she had a strong sense of being on some sort of holiday. 

Her mom had never left her alone in the house for more than three or four days for that yearly art fair in Miami.  Staying here would be different.  It wasn’t packed with familial memories in which she was the obedient, or at least the agreeable, child.  Giles’ apartment was distinctly the home of a childless adult who could pursue his interests freely.  She trailed her hand along the sofa top, the leather rich and warm to the touch, and imagined curling into it in her pajamas.  After patrol, and a long hot shower, maybe with her own pint of ice cream and a soft throw.  She could reclaim the t.v. from the bathroom, and scroll through the late night channel offerings.  It would be a far cry from trying to slip into bed without waking anyone.  

Although, she thought wryly as she called back an answer to Spike’s yelled complaints, she might have to gag the vampire first.  And she’d _definitely_ have to find a new place to chain him up in order to actually take that idyllic post-patrol shower.  She watched the mug circling in the microwave and realized that in her imagination, Giles’ trip was steadily expanding.  Now she was thinking a comfortable two weeks.  Maybe a month.

She pulled the mug out and stirred the blood with a straw, suddenly feeling overly warm—and had the blood heated in the middle?  No, it was tepid.  She would put it back in for a minute and check on Spike; that tub couldn’t be comfortable.  And he’d been in it all day.  She headed for the bathroom.  It was just Spike, she reminded herself.  

But there he was in front of her, and even trussed in a bathtub there was nothing _just_ about Spike.  She paused in the doorway, taking him in; she licked her lips and realized she had clenched her thighs.  Gaunt-cheeked, he was still sinuous and angular and beautiful, and the way he was looking at her, his red-rimmed eyes hot and desperate—

“Buffy,” he whispered, his voice a rumble that made her flush even hotter. “Buffy.  _Marry me._ ”  He began struggling to sit up even though his feet were chained high; he was fumbling with the shackles.  She was across the tile and kneeling at the side of the tub in an instant, and his body went completely still.  “Buffy,” he said cautiously, “know it’s sudden—“

“Oh, Spike,” she said.  He raised his eyes, and the candid terror she saw there pierced her.  “Spike.  _Of course_ the answer’s yes.”

There was a moment of quiet, of just looking at each other, and Buffy thought _why did this take so long_ , and then he leaned forward and kissed her.  His lips were unexpectedly soft, and the kiss was tender, but there was something inside her that tenderness couldn’t even begin to address.  And then she was climbing into the tub on top of him and his chains and she could tell that that would have been better, except her weight on the chains was sliding him down to the tub bottom, jamming his knees up behind her.  As she was forced forward on her own knees, he was suddenly laughing, a genuine laugh she’d never heard before—and now she was poised above him with her hands on the tub rim, laughing too, because their lives were absurd, just absurd.   They’d been ignoring the obvious truth of their hearts, battling and trying to kill each other, acting out parts some maniac wrote for them, and why?  For what?   

“I guess I better go find the key,” said Buffy demurely.

“Don’t go,” said Spike, “stay here.”  He bucked his hips under her out of some residual wicked instinct, but she was too far forward to make it anything except ridiculous.  She started to laugh again, and whirled herself up and off into the living room, to rifle through the drawers of Giles’ desk. He’d told her exactly where he’d left the key, but it was hard to remember while her thoughts were consumed with a drumbeat of _I’m marrying Spike, Spike, Spike, I’m marrying Spike._

There. There was the key.  She grabbed it and headed back to the bathroom door.  Poised there, seeing Spike see her, the open wonder on his face—she suddenly felt alight with love, love and desire for her gorgeous chained-up vampire, and in some strange way, for herself—the self she was going to be, at last, with her proper partner at her side.  He’d scooted up so his back was once again on the slope of the tub, and this time she approached deliberately, stepping into the tub and standing over his thighs.  

“Spike,” she said thoughtfully.  She dangled the key.  “Do you think I should unlock you … right away?”

His eyes widened.  “Please, love.  Unlock me.  Need to touch you.”

“Maybe,” said Buffy.   “Or maybe I get to touch you first.”  She put the key in her teeth, feeling a little silly for a moment, but with Spike’s hot eyes on her she also felt wild and strong.  By the time she had pulled her top off over her head, and discarded her bra, and heard Spike growl as he watched her hair cascade back down in messy curls, she was pretty sure silly had left the room.  And by the time she’d shredded his shirt and could trace his compact, delineated muscles, and look up into his blown pupils, silly was skulking into a dive bar.  She balanced carefully then, because if she fell while getting her pants off straddling her chained-up fiancé in a bathtub, silly might come galloping back.  

She had just freed one foot when the overhead lightbulb exploded with a pop, a tinkle of thin glass shards hitting the thick glass shade.  As the room went dark, she gasped and grabbed for the side of the tub, and she heard the key hit the tile and slide.

The light from the hall faintly edged the contours of Spike’s torso and cheekbones.  As she gazed, his face shifted into ridges, and his eyes glimmered gold.  “I don’t think we need the key at all,” said Buffy.  She knelt back down and ducked under the chain to get to work on Spike’s belt.

 

***

 

“Honey!”

“Don’t shout at me, Alexander Harris.”  Anya wasn’t having any of that.

“Sorry.”  Xander swung the axe wildly, but missed.  “I didn’t mean to shout.  Just—”   The second time he connected better, and she couldn’t help but wince at the way the axe sunk in above the ridgebacked demon’s knee.  

“Yes, dear?”  Anya liked to be gracious about apologies; so few men offered genuine ones.  She got the bat around the fellow’s neck and pulled sharply backwards, but she wasn’t strong enough to choke him; he wrenched away, almost getting her weapon away from her.

“It’s just…that…if you put your hands…a little further down,” grunted Xander with difficulty, “It’ll give you a better … _argh_ … swing.”

“Oh!”  Anya adjusted her grip, and bashed the back of the ridgeback’s head. He toppled like a felled tree.  “Oh, yes!  That’s much better,” said Anya. “ _Thank_ you!”  

Xander was definitely one of the good ones.  

 

***

 

Buffy woke gradually, first aware only that she was curled against Spike’s chest, encircled by his arms.  She sighed happily into the curve of his neck, and felt him stir.  She gradually recognized the cold, hard curve of the tub’s enamel against her knee, and the weight of the chains draped across her bent leg.  

“Buffy.”  She felt his cool breath in her hair.  “My love.”

“Mmmm,” she said.  “I suppose I should go find a flashlight and figure out where that key got to.”

“No hurry,” said Spike.  “Still not sure this isn’t a dream.  Though I wouldn’t argue with a bit fuller access.”  He kissed her temple and moved his shackled hands down to her bare backside.

She righted herself, one knee on each side of his legs, and carefully backed out from under the loop of his arms.   “I’ll be right back.”

It should seem stranger to walk around Giles’ apartment naked.  But she felt deeply relaxed.  What an astonishing thing real love was:  so unlikely, so obvious.  So simple.  She pulled Giles’ flashlight from the entry table and locked the front door with a half-laugh.

“Eh!” called Spike.  “What’s so funny?”  There was a hint of worry in his voice.

“Nothing.  Nothing, except I didn’t lock the door when I came in.  Anyone could have barged in on us.”  She flicked the beam of light across the bathroom floor until she spotted the key, just under the edge of a cabinet. 

Spike snorted as she unlocked his hands and moved to his feet.  “Would have been blinded by your loveliness, no doubt.  Wish the light hadn’t blown.  Most beautiful thing I’ve ever only half-seen.”  She pulled the last shackle off and he scooted backwards in the tub, then suddenly stood, pulling her up with him.  She steadied him as he almost fell; his tattered pants still bound his ankles.  “Like a bloody goddess, riding me with that lush cunny.”

She felt a blush spread across her skin.  “You’re a pig, Spike.”  She couldn’t hide the pleasure in her voice.  “Sit back down before you fall over.”

“Lush cunny,” he repeated, grinning and pulling her close.  “No shame in being a lovely woman, or having lovely woman parts.”

 

***

 

As Buffy exited the butcher shop, she tilted her head back to study the new open-air bell tower that now loomed over the Sunnydale town square.  Calling it _new_ seemed all kinds of wrong—it was incredibly quaint.  She vaguely recalled her mother mentioning that the Planning Board was trying to replace the staid old clock face with a mechanism that would keep the correct time, but was having trouble agreeing on a design.  It was hard to imagine how they’d ended up with this:  a Victorian folly of a clock, like a giant pocket watch, cradled on the back of a leaping bronze gazelle.  As Buffy watched, the minute hand trembled into the upright position, and the life-size metal automatons arranged around the base of the construct began to move.  A woman wearing an elaborate headdress leaned back jerkily as she raised a gong; her counterpart —was that _Death,_ in the hooded cloak?— slowly hefted a mighty hammer to hit it.  Buffy could feel the sound of the gong strike through to her bones.  If this was part of the Planning Board’s efforts to attract tourists to Sunnydale, they had lost their collective mind.

In any case, her errands were done:  she had picked up some unshredded clothes at Spike’s crypt, and now she had blood.  At eleven at night, the butcher had provided a variety of bloods, no questions asked.  Handy; but sometime when she didn’t have a wedding to plan she should probably look into that.  Not that there was anything wrong with vamps opting to purchase their meals.  The gong sounded again, and she shuddered.  

She turned to head back to Giles’ and stopped, transfixed by a nearby shop display.  Though the shop was closed, a single spotlight still lit the window, illuminating a wedding dress.  Buffy had never really daydreamed about a wedding, not even as a little girl.  She’d enjoyed the occasional party dress—but most of her play had involved adventures, difficult journeys to find Doctor Livingstone (lost for years in the basement), or daring searches for treasure (in the secret temple under the table).  And by the time she might have thought about a wedding as more than an opportunity to play dress-up, she had been called, her chances at happily-ever-after eradicated.  That’s what she had thought. 

She moved closer to the display, strangely touched by the manikin that had clearly graced the window for many years, as many dresses had come and gone.  Its sightless face was ecstatic.  One of its outstretched fingers had been chipped; since its fingers didn’t actually separate, half a fake diamond ring had been glued over the top of the ring finger.  She realized she was caressing the skull ring on her own hand.  The dress, with a sparkly beaded bodice, was not a dress Buffy would choose.  But the thought she would be choosing a dress, a dress she would wear as she and Spike spoke their vows, moved her nearly to tears. 

“Buffy!” said a vaguely familiar voice.

She turned.  “Riley?”  She frowned; had he always looked like such a big, rumpled kid?  And his face was grimy.  It suddenly dawned on her that she had cancelled their date tonight, in order to tend to Spike, without the faintest notion that her dating days were over.  She’d been so blind.  _I’m marrying Spike, Spike, Spike…_

But she needed to focus.  It was important to do this the right way.  She made her voice kind.  “Riley.”

“Buffy?”

She reached out and took his hand, noticing as she did there was a blackened streak up his camouflage khakis.  “Riley … I really like you. I hope you know that you mean a lot to me.  And if things were different—”

“Things … _are_ very different,” said Riley.  His hand, in hers, was sweaty and shaking, and it gave her pause.

“You’re all freaked out.”

“There was—there was a containment malfunct—the elevator—”  He stared at her a moment, his eyes wild.  She saw him take a deep breath, and he pulled back his hand.  “I mean, heh, the elevator changed and I had to…uh…no big deal.”  His laughter was much too loud in the empty street.

“Oh.” Buffy frowned.  “What elevator?”

“…huh?”

She shrugged; she couldn’t think of an elevator on campus that went more than a floor, but whatever.  She needed to get this done, so she could get home to Spike.  “I want you to promise me that we can always be friends, Riley.  And I’d really like you to be there on The Day.”

_“Huh?”_

“My wedding day.” Buffy felt herself growing warm at the words.  It was the first time she’d said them out loud.

“I—I have to go,” said Riley.

“Wait—are you mad?”  

“I—uh…” The walkie-talkie on Riley’s hip let out a short blast of static, and he jumped.  

“You are mad,” said Buffy sadly.

“I just have somewhere I have to be,” said Riley, breaking away at a trot.  

“I’ll let you know when we choose the date!” she called after him.  Riley didn’t so much as turn his head.  She sighed.  At least she’d tried.


	4. Shhh

In the dark and rain, every spark of illumination spawned a billion confused reflections in the water sluicing sideways across the airplane window.  Giles was doing his best to concentrate on the latest Aubrey-Maturin novel, because he’d be damned if he was going to spend his time and energy dwelling on the gall of Travers summoning him back like a discarded beau.  But try as he might, the details of the ship’s construction—well really, who cared?  He applauded the author’s diligence, of course, such meticulous research was to be honored; however, he had lost track of how many times he’d looked up obscure, out-dated nautical terminology only to find it explained by way of even more obscure, more out-dated nautical terminology.  He’d possibly have been better off bringing that impenetrable treatise on Taglarin rites.  But the treatise was stowed below him in the belly of the plane, so onward he doggedly read.  

It wasn’t just the personal disrespect that got to him.  It was Travers himself, the man:  so officious and small-minded.  So unctuous.  So convinced he was the central figure in the fight against the forces of darkness.  Travers made it clear that everyone else was an expendable pawn—including Buffy, as fierce and inventive a warrior as had been recorded in the Watcher archives.  It was fortunate Giles was absorbed in his novel, or he would be getting steadily more furious.  

He lifted his plastic cup to his lips before realizing he’d apparently already drained it.  His neighbor was asleep, head held semi-erect by a crescent pillow.  Giles began to rise, the better to catch the attention of a stewardess, when he realized that it was too almost certainly too late; the window was swarming with ground lights below them.  They were on the descent; and remarkably quickly, he felt the wheels on the ground, the harsh return to life on the surface.  He marked his place and dropped the book into his satchel with a sigh.

His relief was cut short as the plane slowed to land-bound speeds.  Even with the rain coming down in sheets, he could see there was an emergency in progress:  a half-dozen flashing emergency vehicles, fires trailing across the slick black tarmac.  Harried medics, stretchers, and wet tarps—he very much feared they covered casualties.  As they taxied in a wide arc, a smoldering wooden framework covered in canvas came into view, rising up incongruously out of a wrecked steel fuselage, eerily backlighting the men in bulky fire suits working frantically around it.  It looked for all the world as though a jet had collided with a zeppelin.

Once they debarked and made it inside, the airport itself was chaos.  Upset and stranded people waited in snaky lines for rebooking, for food, for hotel vouchers, for phones. A confusion of announcements overlapped and cut off abruptly.  Luggage carousels were doubly assigned, to accommodate both arriving and late-cancelled flights.  

How the driver sent by the Council found him, Giles would never know—most assuredly, because the man was as communicative as the suitcase he hefted with a grunt.  Less, as the suitcase held a fair number of books.  But after a long flight of fuming and tiny scotch bottles, capped with the surreal scene on the runway, it was a relief to allow someone to lead him to a car.  

He sank into the plush leather of the rear seat.  As they pulled from the curb and eased into the sluggish traffic, he was mesmerized by the unlikely figurine on the dashboard:  a cowboy on a horse, bobbing gently in its own quiet plastic rodeo.  The squeak of the wipers and the cadence of rain on the roof combined into a hypnotic rhythm.  

Giles jerked awake when the driver shook his shoulder at their destination; his dream had jumbled recent experiences together into a claustrophobic mess, some sort of dangerous night landing in a nazi/vampire/cowboy war zone.  The car was pulled up at the base of a path that led up to the door of a gently dilapidated Victorian house.  He stepped out of the car as the driver pulled his case from the trunk.  The man eyed him skeptically for a moment, then turned to tote the case up the path himself.  

It was not until he’d followed the man into the house, receiving a key and grunted directions to a room, that he realized he had no idea how long he had slept, or how far they had travelled from Heathrow.  He turned to enquire just in time to see the door shut.  He sighed, and began to dry the rain from his glasses.  This whole situation—the brusque delivery to some odd little boarding house, probably in the middle of nowhere, the absence of any explanation—it was all so very _Travers_.

The hallway smelled of suspended dust.  The flowers on the wallpaper had no doubt been fashionable before they’d faded and crinkled along the seams.  The phone on the console by the door was an old-fashioned candlestick model; he wondered if it could possibly still work.  

His room, when he reached it at the top of the stairs, was long and narrow, its proportions echoed by the long narrow bed.  Otherwise, there was only a ceramic wash basin; a small wardrobe; and a light with a knob that felt for a moment as though it might snap off rather than turn on.  But the bed was neatly made and the sheets smelled fresh, the pillows arranged under a charming dormer window that tap-tapped with rain.  He undressed and slid into it thankfully.  His last thought, as he tumbled back into sleep, was of Buffy.  He did hope she and Spike weren’t at each other’s throats.

 

***

 

Buffy’s breathing shifted her body subtly against Spike’s ribs, over and over.  He could hear her strong heart, and feel her pulse, there in her temple, her thigh crossing his, her ankle on his shin.  Her eyes flicked beneath her lids.  Her breath blew rhythmically along his collarbone.  She was an ocean.

How could it have taken him so long to realize he loved her?  He supposed over the century with Drusilla, he had simply stopped taking note of his heart.  Certainly, every sign had been there.  The hours he’d spent watching those clandestine videos, far past the point of curiosity or utility.  The way their truce-night walk had threaded through his dreams.  How hard he had had to work to keep his mind off the tableau he had left her in, there in the courtyard with Angel, as he drove South.  Not even poor, mad Dru had been oblivious enough to miss it.  

“Buffy?”  He fingered her hair clear of her eyes, shifting her sideways so she lay alongside him; she burrowed back against him with a murmur.  “Buffy.”  

“Gumf,” said Buffy.

“My love.”  He kissed her eyelid, her hairline, her ear; she rolled to her back, and he followed.  She pulled him closer on top of her—so strong, his girl, even only half awake; so warm and welcoming.  He kissed his way lazily down her neck, to the hollow of her throat, eyes closed so he could better submerge himself in the faint salt of her skin, the gradual speeding pound of her pulse.

“Mmph,” said Buffy, wriggling when he licked her armpit.  He obligingly moved on, down across the swell of her breast to her nipple, teasing and sucking until her fingers laced into his hair.  

“Spike,” she said, more clearly.  Her legs wrapped over his, and he found himself quite suddenly on the bottom, her hair falling around her face like a curtain.  He watched, entranced, as she sat up and flipped it back.  Then she fitted herself to him and sank, agonizingly slowly, down onto his erection, her eyes half closing.  “Mmm.”

“Buffy,” gasped Spike, reaching for her hips, desperate to move.

“Hold still,” said Buffy softly, and he stopped.  She smiled, a sleepy, pleased smile.  “I feel so full like this.”

“Love—” 

“Shhh.  Just hold still.”  She moved slowly upwards, and Spike tightened his fingers in the bedclothes to stop himself from bucking up into her.  His girl should have what she wanted.  She moved glacially downward.

He squirmed.  “Buffy.” 

“Shhhh,” soothed Buffy.  She laced her fingers through his and gently pinned his hands beside his head.  She moved so her ankles locked his legs to the mattress.  She adjusted thoughtfully, watching him closely, then slowly drew her hips up again.

“Buffy,” he gasped.

“I like this,” she said very quietly.  “I like how you feel in me when I’m a little swollen.”  She took him in again, letting out her breath in a puff when he was fully inside.  She smiled. “And I like being with someone strong, but being just a little bit stronger.”

She was raising herself again; he was nearly delirious.  “And I like your face when you can barely stand it.”  She leaned down and tilted her head sideways to kiss him, her hair surrounding him, and he gave himself over completely to the kiss as she moved against him again.  She shifted slightly to explore another angle, all with the same excruciating slowness.

A sudden sharp pounding filled the apartment, accompanied by muffled yelling.  Buffy broke of the kiss, looking down at him with a sigh.  “Duty,” she said regretfully.

 _“What?”_ said Spike.  “Whoever it is can _fucking_ _sod off_.”

“You’re marrying the Slayer,” said Buffy wryly. “This probably won’t be the last time duty interrupts us.”  She cocked her head.  “Sounds like Xander.”  

She leaned forward and kissed him again, quick and warm.  Then she lifted off of him and swung off the bed in a single fluid motion.  Spike let out a jagged groan. “We’ll have to arrange some sort of coverage for the honeymoon, but right now...”  She shrugged into Spike’s t-shirt and found her pants.  “Duty.”

Spike fell back against the pillows.

 

***

 

The front door rattled in its frame.  Buffy flipped the latch, and Anya tumbled in, clutching a baseball bat, Xander on her heels.  Before he could even slam the door, a demon was on him, red-eyed with a fishy head-fin.  Buffy sent the demon flying backwards out the door, and Spike slammed it shut and shot the lock home.

“Demons!” gasped Anya.  “Demons and more demons.”

“What happened?” said Buffy.

Xander began pushing a bookcase in front of the door; Spike moved to help him.  “Demons happened — they just keep coming and coming — hey, Spike!  Spike is loose!”  Xander backed away as Spike got the bookcase settled securely.  “And he’s shirtless and … he’s _helping?_ ”

The bookcase began to shudder with the force of blows against the door.  “Oh, Xander.”  Buffy practically melted (though she also stabilized the bookcase) as she held out her finger with Spike’s ring dangling loosely on it.  “You’ll never believe what’s happened!”

“What? Wait, what?”

“Bout time,” said Anya.  “And congratulations!  But we better block the windows with something, don’t you think?”

Spike began maneuvering an end table across the room.  Xander appeared paralyzed. “ _What?_ ”

“Honey, help Spike.”

“Right.  Right,” said Xander, clearly still bewildered, and scrambled over to Spike.

 

***

 

As Buffy dispatched the third demon that had hurdled itself head-first through the transom, she sighed.  “They all go straight for you, Xander.  I think you should stand there,” she pointed at a patch of wall, “and the rest of us will just form a gauntlet and hack at them along the way.  It’s like you’re a demon magnet or something.”

Xander snapped his fingers.  “Oh.  Oh.  I know something.  I totally know … something.  Demon magnet, Buffy and Spike … Willow!  Willow did a spell!”

“Better get her over here, then,” said Spike.  “This is interrupting special time with my lady.”  Buffy sliced the head of the tavicular demon clean off with a sword.  “That was brilliant, love.”

Spike and Buffy beamed at each other.

“Riiiight,” said Xander.  “Because you two are still going to get married, _after the spell ends_.”  

“Oh, _this_ is not a spell,” said Buffy, moving closer to Spike and lifting her chin to kiss him.

“Buffy:  Willow said you should marry Spike.  And tell me, had that thought ever crossed your mind before yesterday?”

“Xander, what’s Willow’s number?” called Anya from the kitchen. “Nevermind!  It’s here by the phone.”

A set of nine human-ish heads on tentacles snaked in the window.

 

***

 

“It’s not a spell,” said Buffy defiantly, pulling Spike closer.  “We love each other.”  She looked up at him, searching his eyes.  

“Been true a long time, pet.  Was just slow to catch on,” said Spike, curling his arm around her and drawing her into another kiss.  His other hand caught her ass, grinding her tight against him.

Willow employed an epic eye-roll to avert her gaze.  “Uh.  Yeah!  So this … this won’t affect you two then.  _Let the healing power begin. Let my will be safe again. As these words of peace are spoken, let this harmful spell be broken!_ ”

“Ouch!” said Xander, hitting the floor as the demon he’d been strangling vanished.  Anya let the end of her bat fall to the floor with relief.

The kiss continued for a long moment.  When it finally broke, Spike smiled  “Felt it end, Red,” he said, without looking away from Buffy.  

Buffy frowned.  

“Doesn’t matter,” he added hastily.  “Love you just the same.”

“ _We_ weren’t part of the spell,” said Buffy, irritated.  

“Oh?” said Spike, lifting an eyebrow.

“Oh,” said Xander, looking bereft.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Willow, frowning.

“Huh,” said Anya, thoughtfully.

 

***

 

“Guys, I am so, so sorry.  And Giles did say that spells were going wrong — it’s why he was called away,” said Willow.

They were standing in the courtyard outside Giles’ apartment; it had seemed pretty clear that they would be witness to some super-powered heavy petting if they stayed inside.  Perhaps more than petting.

“Wrong as in…not ending?” asked Xander.

“He didn’t say exactly how.”  She kicked at a rock.  “He was being all reserved and British.  He might have used the word ‘disastrous.’”

“Well,” said Anya, “it could be the spell went wrong and part of it became permanent; or it could be that the spell to end the enchantment went wonky and only half worked.  But I’m glad our demon problem seems to have ended.  The danger!  And the slime.”

“Huh,” said Willow absently.  She frowned. “I guess no more morning creampuffs.”

“With near infinite power, you willed yourself creampuffs?” said Xander.

Willow’s cheeks reddened.  “I maybe sort of wished that when I woke up, there’d coffee and a lovely little creampuff waiting?  It did seem like an _awfully_ big coincidence when it began happening.”

“I hope for your sake, that part of the spell is permanent too,” said Anya congenially.


	5. The Rooming House

The Dapper Salt was cozy and packed and cheerful, exactly as Giles had hoped. He had had to shout over heads at the bar to order, and now he sat against a wall decorated with a few fading photographs of what he assumed were local football teams, a pint of real English bitter before him. Three days in a remote rooming house, in the company of no one except a sour housekeeper with her hair up in a bun so tight it pulled at her face. Three days waiting for Travers, or anyone at all from the Council, to explain the reason for his “emergency” summoning. The simple act of venturing out and finding a pub had improved his spirits immensely.

Why, after all, had he been feeling so isolated, so trapped? He took a decisive sip of his beer and studied the pocket watch he’d brought with him on a whim. He’d been unable to successfully get a phone call through to Buffy — he’d heard her voice say hello once, but the connection always went dead on that ancient candlestick phone. But the Council couldn’t just leave him to rot, after all; if they didn’t contact him tomorrow, he could simply leave — head back to London, book a flight home, and resume his modest yet meaningful life. He wound the watch, pleased by the solid ratcheting of the mechanism.

His sausage and mash arrived, piping hot, with mushy peas. He sighed with pleasure, and wondered again how Americans could possibly eat the things they ate. That his vibrant Buffy was built largely out of toaster pastries, pizza, and diet cola seemed nearly impossible.

He was pulled out of his musings when the boisterous conversations suddenly diminished; he realized everyone had focused on the muted black and white TV. It was, oddly, a shaky, low-res video of the burning tarmac from his landing in Heathrow three nights ago. Which made no sense; it had been a notable crash, certainly, but … he realized the legend across the bottom of the screen read “O’Hare.” Yet it was peculiarly similar: flames licking up fragments of wooden struts, stretched with canvas, as a bent turbofan rotated slowly alongside. “That’s five, now,” said a grim voice.

“That we know of,” called someone else.

“Five what?” asked Giles, to no one in particular.

“Five planes full of people, fallen out of the sky,” said a woman. “They’re closing the airports.”

Giles turned towards her, seeing again in his mind’s eye the tarps and fires at the airport. “Terrorism?” he asked.

“’S aliens,” said a middle-aged man authoritatively. “Nothing else’s turning new planes old. ’S why there’s only bystander footage. _They_ don’t want us to know.”

“You hush,” said a younger woman, rounding on him, her face reddening. “Hush! I don’t want to hear it!” She turned suddenly away, and barreled out the door. The conspiracist stared after her, eyes wide.

“Frankie, her cousin,” said the first woman. “In the first crash, the one at Heathrow.”

“Oh,” said the man, appalled. “Oh, no. I didn’t know.”

“That’s terrible,” said Giles, staring back at the screen as the image flipped to a blackened, burning smear across a field, this one in France. Only after a moment of contemplation did the personal consequences of the news sink in. “ _All_ the airports? Do you mean there are _no_ flights?”

 

 ***

 

By the time he walked back to the rooming house, he realized he was swaying a little on the dark path up the hill from town. Yet he almost felt like whistling. He was confident: he would find a way back to Sunnydale. He was Buffy’s friend and her Watcher, and by hook or by crook— he tripped on the top step and caught himself with a heavy thump against the door.

Rubbing his shoulder, he opened it quietly, hoping the noise hadn’t disturbed the disapproving Ms. Holmwood. All was dark inside. As he pushed the light button on, he caught a flicker of movement from the parlor, and swung around to face it.  But he found himself facing only the sad upright piano and even sadder curl-footed sofa, a spring poking from its bottom.

It was when he turned back to hang his hat on a wall peg that he spotted the envelope on the console. It was prim and square, on thick paper stock. “R. Giles” was scrawled across it in a florid, pretentious scrawl. _Travers_.

 

***

 

“I suppose,” said Quentin Travers weightily, “you are wondering why your presence was required.” The man was looking as officious as ever, his fussy little self perfectly suited to the ornate Council meeting room Giles found himself in.

“I’d like to know exactly why, even though I am no longer in your employ, you have summoned me using such small-minded threats — yes. Yes, indeed.” Giles looked Travers directly in the eye.

Travers let his chin drop just slightly, and Giles realized that the bombast was camouflage for a man running on fumes; Travers was exhausted. There was a small stain on his shirt. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Something is altering the very fabric of the mystical world, and we need your help. The help of every affiliated practitioner—”

“Or we thought we did.”

Giles turned to see an erect but aged woman in the doorway, a younger woman just behind her. He knew the elder instantly — Mrs. Harkness, one of the most venerable members of the Coven. He’d seen her once, as a young Watcher. The gossip surrounding her powers, and her age, had been intense even then. Her grey mane and regal dress seemed no older now, though it had been a quarter century. The cane, however, was new to him.

“The help of every affiliated practitioner,” repeated Travers. “It appears that magic — spell casting, to be more precise — is becoming erratic.”

“So you told me on the phone,” said Giles. “Yet I fail to see why my presence—”

“As it turns out, Quentin,” said Mrs. Harkness, “it would be more accurate to say magic is regressing.”

The relief that passed Travers’ face was deep. “You’ve found the source?”

“Nothing so precise, but we have had a breakthrough. Not only is it _not_ good news, but it may well have made Mr. Giles’ journey here unnecessary.” She turned to look at Giles, and he felt pinned by her gaze. “It took a young acolyte studying for her history exam to see the pattern for what it was.” She nodded at the young woman, who stepped forward as though she’d been shoved.

“Heya,” said the woman, clearly American and not nearly as intimidated by Mrs. Harkness as Giles had been in his twenties. “I was helping put pushpins in a map — y’know, to see if there were geographical ley lines in play for the catastrophic failures? And I just started using different colors to indicate the type of magic that had failed because I’d just written a paper on magical evolution, and I have my oral exam next week — a way to practice, y’know? And then I’d assigned all the colors in my head, y’know, red for fire and green for earth, and then there are sky-blue pins for air, and I was going to use pink for—”

“Go on to what you discovered, Molly,” said Mrs. Harkness.

“Oh, right. It turned out I only needed half the colors, no pink at all, and—”

“Molly.”

“Because only the newest kinds of magic are failing.”

“Newest?” said Giles, mystified.

Mrs. Harkness hurried on before Molly could start another list. “Spells are failing by vintage, so to speak—the families of magic more recently developed go wrong every time, while older spells remain stable. For the moment. There are some indications that the rot, if you will, is still spreading … backwards.”

“There was no pink at all!” said Molly. “No pink and no green. And where there was blue, it was only Blechworthian air charms — like, the _total babies_ of air magicks.” She popped her gum with a smack.

“In short,” said Mrs. Harkness, “ancient magicks — blood rites, bindings of the earth — seem to be immune to this disruption, although we do not know if that will last. I should stress that our data is incomplete. With phone service and the internet disrupted, we know only what has made its way back to the Coven.”

“Have you made any progress in determining the origin of the disruptions?” asked Giles.  

“We have expended a great deal of energy attempting to divine that point,” said Mrs. Harkness. “We are unable to answer the question conclusively — when we get close to the source, some kind of defense goes up and shuttles our collective attention elsewhere. Even the full power of the Coven is unable to penetrate this shielding. But we have determined that it has a primary location, and that that location is in slow but steady movement.”

Giles felt queasy as he asked his next question. “And where does that movement seem to be headed?”

Mrs. Harkness eyed him. “I have a feeling you already suspect the answer. We believe the force is heading to the Hellmouth.”

“Of course it is,” said Giles grimly. “It is imperative I return.”

“Agreed,” said Travers. “And not alone. Although the fact most airports have had to shut down presents ... some difficulty.”

 

***

 

If Giles wound his watch again, he’d ruin the mechanism. His glasses were already as clean as they could possibly be at this stage of their existence. And so instead he paced, occasionally availing himself of the excellent scotch he’d found in the decanter at the end of the room. It was precisely twelve steps from one end of the room to the window at the other end, which he now empirically knew could be counted out in either threes or fours. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

As though it weren’t insulting enough to have been left in the dark for three days, Travers had bustled off somewhere to deal with the arrangements with barely a word. Mrs. Harkness and Molly had gone with him, no doubt to consult on magical travel.  

From the window, he could see nothing other than the Council headquarters’ perfectly manicured lawn on a dreary day, and a high hedge backed by a fence. One, two, three. One, two, three.

The door opened and Mrs. Harkness’ swept inside, Travers behind her. “I’m sorry. But I’m afraid we feel that teleportation is far too dangerous at this time,” she told him. Molly hurried in behind them and stood anxiously to the side.

Travers raised an eyebrow at the glass listing in Giles’ hand. “Bit early, isn’t it?” he inquired.

Mrs. Harkness continued. “We have taken the liberty of securing two transatlantic crossings.”

“Well, then,” said Giles, relieved that for once Travers was willing to support his Slayer. “Mrs. Harkness, I shall greatly look forward to our discussions on board.”

“I cling to this existence, even on dry land,” said Mrs. Harkness dryly. “I will do my best to arrange for continued communications, but I will not make the voyage.”

Giles turned resolutely to Molly. It couldn’t be worse than his early days with Buffy. “Well, then. Perhaps we can further discuss your studies on the way, Molly. There’s no reason the time shouldn’t benefit your vocation.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Giles,” said Molly, her eyes huge. “My parents wouldn’t dream of letting me go.”

“We sail tomorrow evening, old chap,” said Travers, with more than a touch of acid. “Aboard the _Carpathian Princess._ ”

“The _Carpathian_ …” Giles stared. “We two … are going on _a cruise_. Together.”

“No, we’re taking sled dogs to the Bering Straight,” snapped Travers. “Then we swim. Believe me, we have thought through the alternatives. I’m afraid long-distance travel today is not what it was … Tuesday. A repositioning cruise to New York City was the best we could do.”

“New York City,” said Giles, lost.

“Be packed at noon; we have to be at the Southhampton terminal by four o-clock.” Travers turned on his heel and strode briskly towards the door. When he reached it, he paused and looked back at Giles with a tight-lipped smile, some gleam in his eye Giles could not interpret. “Surely even _you_ at some point dreamt of a life at sea.”

The glass slipped from Giles’s hand, spattering scotch across the carpet.


	6. A Big Occasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alpha'd or beta'd or something by OffYourBird. Many thanks!

“Maybe we should wait for Giles to get back,” said Xander.  “I mean, how long can they possibly keep him in England?”  He, Anya, and Buffy were sitting around Giles’ table.  Anya paged absently through a heavy tome, occasionally smiling at the drawings of monsters.  They all ignored the muffled cursing coming from the direction of the bathroom.

“He hasn’t called,” said Buffy.  “Unless some of those hangups were him.  And, anyway, we’re in a much better position to gather information on those soldier dudes than Giles is right now.  I wanna know what’s happening on my turf.”

“What do you suspect these commandos are doing, exactly, that’s so wrong?”

“Torture,” called Spike from the bathroom.  “Murder, experiments … amputations.”

“Yeah, but Spike — aren’t those all things you enjoy?”

“Not so big on experiments.”  He entered the room carrying the bathroom light fixture and a spare bulb.  He set them on the table and leaned against the table beside Buffy.  “This is looking pretty tortured too.  Take a look.” 

Xander scooted his chair back with distaste.  “I’m looking,” said Xander.  “That’s an antique light fixture that won’t glow again.  Did you have to pull it right out of the ceiling?  Is that how demons ‘fix’ things?”

“Between that, the axe marks in the brand-new door, and the demolished bookcase, Giles is going to think we didn’t even try,” said Buffy lightly, rising to give Spike a quick kiss on the cheek.  He slid his arm around her waist.

“Was hanging by the wires in there,” said Spike.  “But _look_.  Anything seem off to you?”

“I don’t remember that at all,” interjected Anya.  

“No, you don’t,” said Spike.  “Used to be a modern thing.”

“That’s crazy talk,” said Xander, but he stood and moved closer.

“Yet true.  Spent two days chained up with not much else to look at.”

Xander reached out and gingerly pulled the base of the old bulb away; it came loose with a brittle twang.  The screw threads had been squeezed until they buckled. “I can see why the bulb popped.  It could never have fit that socket.”

“I’m not especially mechanical,” said Buffy. “But does that make any kind of sense?”

“No,”said Xander.  He was frowning.

“Head hurts,” said Spike.

“Magic,” said Anya flatly.  “But that’s such a strange thing for Willow to wish for.”

Buffy had turned away; she was staring towards Giles’s desk with a frown.  The clang of the new bell tower tolled distantly, and she shook her head as though shaking off her thoughts.  “I have to run to meet Willow for class.  We’ll have to figure out a plan for the soldiers later.”  She turned to Spike and smiled with the power of the sun.  “I’ll come back after Psych and we can head to Mom’s at dusk?”

Spike stood a little straighter.  “Uh—”

“You remember.  She needed help with something.  And we can do a quick patrol of Ever-Rest on the way.”

“Sure, pet.  Just didn’t know I was coming tonight.  And I’m not so good at the ol’ violence just now.”

“Honey, you can totally be my cheerleader — it’s fun, I promise.  And we can help out with whatever Mom needs _and_ break our happy news.” 

 

As soon as the door shut behind Buffy, Spike turned to Anya.  “What do I do?” 

Anya studied him for a moment.  “I haven’t looked into American courtship traditions in over a century.  Xander?”

“Huh?”

Spike turned to Xander with such a desperate look that he found himself taking an involuntary step backwards.  “Chocolates?” said Spike.   

“Is this … a new spell?”

“For her _mum_ , idiot, not you.  What do I take over there?”

“Uh, yeah.  Well.  You’re a mass murderer who wants to marry her daughter.  I don’t think candy is going to be enough to make Joyce like you.”

Spike blinked.  “Already _likes_ me.  Made me cocoa, sat up and talked half the night … but doesn’t mean she’ll think me _suitable_.”

“I am so not helping you, Spike.”

“Xander — why not?”  Anya looked puzzled.

“Anya, he’s _evil_.”

“Not lately.  And he wasn’t ever as evil as I was.”

“Hey, now!”  Spike looked indignant.

“In terms of sheer wanton destruction?  Oh, I would _so_ win that game.  A lot more centuries and a lot more devastation.”  She said it with easy pride.  

Xander stared at her for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Spike.  The vampire who had kidnapped him, and who was now staring at him earnestly.  “Riiiight.  Okay … Spike, you know you were under the influence of a spell when you proposed, right?”

“Right, yeah,” said Spike, nodding.  “Flowers?  Heliotrope, campanula?”

“…And Buffy still says there was no spell.  Why do you think that is, exactly?”

“Didn’t end for her — that big problem with the magicks,” said Spike impatiently.  “Could bring a bottle of wine, I suppose — would that be better?” 

“I do think Joyce would appreciate a bottle of wine,” said Anya.  “Maybe wine _and_ flowers?  It's a big occasion.”

Xander said slowly, “Spike.  Do you still think you love Buffy?”

Spike looked at him with surprise.  “Wasn’t from the spell.  It’s _Buffy_.  How could I not love her?”

Xander sat down abruptly in his chair.  “But you don’t see anything … _wrong_ … with marrying her while _she’s_ under a spell?”

Spike pulled a chair out and sat so he was facing Xander.  “It’s _all_ wrong.  Shouldn’t love her.  She should never love me.  But right now she does — you think I’m going to walk away from that?  Didn’t cast the spell, but I’ll do what I have to do to make it work.”

Xander stared at him a long moment, then sighed.  “Flowers,” he said.  “Flowers are nice.  And Joyce drinks red.”

“Thanks, mate!” said Spike.

 

***

 

Joyce stood, hands on her hips.  When they’d first moved into this house, they’d called this the Exercise Room — for the exercise bike, which had now gone persistently unused for years, a dusty monument to optimism about dating in a small town as a single mom.  As more and more things had moved into the room, it had briefly become The Study, for the roll-top desk Joyce was going to take up writing fiction on; The North Pole, for the years the Christmas decorations had somehow come up the stairs rather than down to the basement; and, most recently, The Sewing Room.  

The latest appellation was in honor of the lovely, new, compact sewing machine Joyce had gotten herself as a reward after a particularly good autumn at the gallery.  It was never going to go un-oiled, the tension was never going to go out of whack, and she was going to make charming and homey things on it.  Also, it fit tidily into the little bit of space left by those remnants of earlier hobbies.  It, too, had been gathering dust.

Had been.  Joyce stared again at the gorgeous, hand-painted, yet monstrous, treadle-footed machine that had taken its place.  The base and framework were cast iron, and it was wedged awkwardly into the nook her new machine had fit so neatly.   The exercise bike beside it had been knocked upward at an angle so it fell against the wall, dislodging a framed school picture of ten-year-old Buffy.

Buffy hated that picture — she claimed she didn’t like the corduroy jumper, though Joyce suspected she also felt exposed by the unabashed joy in the smile.  When Buffy had become more guarded and private, Joyce had assumed it was just something that happened with teenagers, as they worked out who they were.  When Buffy had started getting in trouble, she’d fretted about the possibility of drugs.  In some ways, it had been reassuring to discover her daughter had had a secret life thrust on her.  

Although learning of the continuous risk and mortal danger, the short life expectancy — that really hadn’t been reassuring at all.  It was painful to acknowledge how short her daughter’s life was likely to be; painful to look at 10-year-old Buffy, still unshadowed by her destiny.  It was painful to remember a time Joyce had thought of a future with grandkids.  And it was like a physical blow to remember, again, how little she could do to help. 

As though on cue, she heard the door open and shut downstairs.  “Mom?”

“Up here, honey.  I’m so glad you got my message!”

Footsteps pounded up the stairs.  “I got it, but it was cut off,” said Buffy, entering the room.  “Our answering machine hasn’t been working so well.”  Joyce turned back to look at the sewing machine, and Buffy came and stood beside her.  “Wow, mom.  That’s quite an upgrade. Color me surprised.”  

“What’s really surprising is I didn’t _make_ an upgrade,” said Joyce.  “I’d say someone came in and stole my new sewing machine — but who steals a thing and leaves something more valuable in its place?  I looked it up; this is a museum-quality piece.  I think that’s real gold-leaf.”

“Weird,” said Buffy thoughtfully.  “An old thing suddenly replacing a new one.  And it’s dented the wall.”

“And upset the exercise bike.”  Joyce turned to look at her daughter.  “Why, Buffy.  You look just radiant.”

Buffy reached out and took her mother’s hands as she spoke in a rush.  “Oh, Mom.  We’re getting married!”

“We are?” said Joyce, nonplussed.

“Well … _we_ are,” said Spike, emerging from the hall with a bouquet.  He held it out to Joyce.  The pale blue and white flowers trembled slightly in the air between them.

 

***

 

“So I take it we're not supposed to be scared of you anymore,” said Joyce, pulling out a cutting board and laying the flower stems across it.  Joyce had sent Buffy to carry both the exercise bike and the sewing machine to the basement, with instructions that involved repositioning several sections of shelving full of books to make places for them. And also to knock before she came back up. Thumping and the occasional metallic squeak rose up the stairs to the kitchen.  

“No … no, ma’am,” said Spike.  “Never would’ve hurt you.”  He watched her cut the stems at an angle.  

“Call me Joyce, please.  I’ll just point out that the two of you were not exactly on the same side last time we talked.  If you wouldn’t mind opening that wine, Spike, the corkscrew is right behind you.”

Spike began peeling the lead wrapper on the bottle.  “No, we weren’t.  Though I loved that, too.  Fierce and creative, your daughter.  Was a joy to fight her.”  He filled a glass half way and placed it in front of Joyce.

“I worry a lot about her.  Because she’s out there fighting … well.”

“Monsters,” said Spike.  “She fights monsters like me, and she’s brilliant at it.”

Joyce picked up her glass and drained it in one long gulp.  “How, exactly, did you two get back on good terms?”

“Well.  I kind of … threw myself on her mercy…” said Spike.  He trailed off.

“And then you declared your love?”

“No!  No, took me a bit to recognize that.  Once it hit, though, I realized I’d been falling for her a long time — since the night I met you, in fact.”  

Joyce considered him.  “When you met me here, or the night I hit you with the axe?”

“Well, the axe — the axe might’ve helped things along a bit,” admitted Spike.  “But I meant here, when we were more properly introduced.”

“You’re a strong fighter, too — she’s mentioned it,” Joyce said absently.  She set the flowers upright in the vase, riffling them until they settled into a pleasing shape.  She looked back up at Spike.  “And Buffy — when did she develop feelings for you?”

Spike stilled, and the smile left Joyce’s face.  When she spoke again, her voice was steely.  “I think you better sit down and tell me what’s going on, Spike.”

Spike swallowed, and sat.  “Well.  Not sure exactly.  Know how much I love her.  But there may’ve been some … magical hijinks.”

 

***

 

When Buffy reentered the kitchen Spike was carefully refilling Joyce’s glass. “Nice of you to let me come back up,” said Buffy.  “Finally.  Everything settled?”

“Pour two more glasses, Spike.  We can have a toast. To your year-long engagement.”

“A year?  Mom!”

“Buffy,” said Spike.  “Love.  It’s a good idea.  Can win over your friends, your Watcher.  And Joyce here:  want her full blessing.”

Buffy pouted while Spike poured.  “But a year is so long.”  She looked up at Spike through her lashes.  “I can’t believe you agreed.”

“Now, honey,” said Joyce.  “We have to _find_ your father, and there’s Arlene and Lolly, and your cousins, all with this problem with the phones.  And … invitations, and the reception … a year is not long at all to plan a wedding.” 

Buffy groaned.  “A _year_.”

“And Spike has promised me he’s going to work hard to keep you safe,” said Joyce, with some satisfaction.

“Mom, I’m _really_ good at what I do —”

“He told me that, honey.”  Joyce’s amusement suffused her voice.  “You couldn’t have a more supportive ... vampire ... fiancé.  Also, I was thinking:  maybe we should go to Los Angeles to look at dresses.  The shop here in town is so small.”

“Oh,” said Buffy.  

“And shoes,” said Joyce.  “I don’t see why a bride’s shoes have to be boring white satin.”

Buffy brightened.  She raised her glass and looked dubiously at the dark red liquid.

“To Buffy,” said Spike gruffly, raising his own.

“To my daughter,” said Joyce, “and to your long, safe future together.”

 

***

 

Buffy absently shredded a grass seed-head.  Somehow, she’d never been to Kingman’s Bluff at night before.  Then again, realistically, late night picnics were never going to be a Sunnydale thing. Below, the lights of the town formed irregular rectangles, car lights snaking the borders and thickening on Main Street and Wilkens Memorial Drive.  The mall and its parking lot was a bright beacon to the North; further away and West, the University was another.  Dusk was long over, but the sky was still backlit at the skyline.

She still felt a deep compulsion to run off and get married right away — it was the inevitable conclusion, surely, of their love.  The public celebration of their private revelation.  Why wait?  But even Spike, quite possibly one of the least patient people on the planet, seemed less in a hurry than she was.  

Also:  shoe shopping in L.A.

She felt the slightest nudge at her senses, the distant tingle of demon, and smiled.  Spike was bringing food.  She stretched luxuriously and leaned back against a hillock to stare up at the stars.  She’d never learned the constellations beyond the Big Dipper, but she bet Spike knew them.  

The commandos … they’d made no progress with the commandos.  They just weren’t the kind of thing that Council-style research could address.  She’d had a half-formed plan to corner Riley today — he’d been looking kind of commando-ish, what with the walkie-talkie, last time she’d seen him — but class had been cancelled, Professor Walsh apparently down with some bug and her research assistant nowhere to be seen.  If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get back to Spike, she might have stopped by Riley’s dorm.

Grass swished; twigs snapped. There was an odd mechanical clicking she couldn’t place at all.  Her tinglies — they were stronger, but they weren’t quite right.  She could sense Spike, his distinctive strength and flavor, but there was something else closer.  Something that didn’t feel quite … normal, even in supernatural terms.  

She sat up silently, and freed the stake from her waistband.  

The approaching creature — it was a fledge, wasn’t it?  It lurched towards her without subtlety, like a fledge, and it groaned “Slayer” with a fledgling’s senseless instinct.  But it whirred and clicked as it came.  Its left leg bent the wrong way, like a dog’s.  She caught just a  glimpse of moonlit gears jutting out below its tattered pants leg before she sank the stake home, and the dust drifted quietly down through the long grass. 

She could feel Spike approaching and marveled that she’d never realized how distinctive her sense of him was; strong and old, but also something else, something as distinctively _Spike_ as his duster.  

An object glinted in the hillock.

“Quick kill,” Spike noted, as she bent down to pick it up.  “That felt a little weird.”

“It did feel … strange,” said Buffy, rolling the thing in her hand.  She held it up toward Spike.  It was a mechanical set of lenses; as she held it up it whirred and shifted so a new lens fell into the viewing ring.  “And this didn’t dust like the rest of him.”

Spike shifted the paper bag he was holding to his right hand and gently took the lens-thing from her.  “Smelt funny, too.”

“Ew.  That’s a super power I’m just as happy not to have,” said Buffy.

Spike startled a little when the lenses moved again.  “Not bad — he smelled like metal shavings.  Maybe woke up in a machine shop.  See what Willow thinks of this?”

“Yeah,” said Buffy.  “Put it away though.  I don’t like the way it moves.”

Spike stuffed it in his duster pocket.  “Ready for some wings?”

“Wings?” said Buffy incredulously.  

“Scrumptious,” said Spike.  “C’mon.  You’ll see.”

 

They sat on the bluff.  The wings, Buffy had to admit, were delicious — caramelized and smoky and remarkably ungreasy.  

“From Freddie’s,” said Spike appreciatively.  “Best wings in town.”  He licked his fingers lasciviously, and Buffy felt herself flush.

“Also, for you:  lemonade.”  He placed a cup with a straw by her knee.  “And for me, blood.”  He pulled a second cup from the bag.

“Freddie’s does blood to go?”

“He does.  Don’t really need it, but thought it might help with the headache.” 

“Oh, honey,” said Buffy.  “Has that been all day?”

“Nearly.  Forgot about it at your mum’s though.  She’s terrifying.”

Buffy laughed, and wiped her fingers clean on a napkin.  “Imagine if she _didn’t_ like you.”   She moved back a little, and ran her fingers up from the back of his neck into his hair, massaging his scalp.  “How’s that?”

Spike’s eyes half closed.  “Mmm.  Nice.”

Buffy’s fingers came to a stop, then ran up and down over a short bump.  “Spike, what’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“This, right here.  I don’t think that was there before.”

His fingers found what she was touching, a thin ridge an inch or so long, just into his hairline.

“Don’t know.  It’s near where they cut into me, but there wasn’t a bump before.”

“Maybe it’s vampire healing — whatever they put in is pushing out?”

“Maybe.  But doesn’t sound exactly comfortable, coming out through my skull.”

“You finish up that blood and we’ll get ourselves home,” said Buffy.  

“Yes ma’am.”

“You’re like, a hundred years older than I am,” said Buffy.  “Don’t call me ma’am.”

Spike gave her a heated, teasing look.  “No ma’am.”  She swatted at him, and he laughed, standing, and reached to pull her up.

As he did, a distant boom distracted them both.  A light blossomed at the University, and the campus went dark.  After a few seconds, lights slowly flicked back on, with a new, greenish hue.  

“Huh,” said Buffy.  “Emergency generators?”

A siren wailed in the distance.


	7. Sea Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to OffYourBird, this chapter ... ends. Yay!

Giles woke slowly, taking pleasure in the sun warming his face and seeping into the cloth of the cotton blanket snugged over his legs. The sounds of the ship sluicing through the water, the hum of the engines, the occasional cry of a gull; they blended into a soothing, irregular murmur. The very breath of the ocean filled his lungs.

He opened his eyes; he’d borrowed an extraordinary book from the captain’s truly expansive library, and nodded off with it open across his chest. He briefly stretched his legs straight before allowing them to collapse again onto the deck chair. He didn’t know how long it had been, how many years, since he’d felt this relaxed. Earlier, he’d spent at least an hour just watching dolphins sport in the ship’s wake.

And how perfect: someone had freshly refilled his drink. Ice cubes gleamed in the pink liquid amid floating bits of grapefruit pulp; a slice of pineapple and a very tiny umbrella, painted with cherry blossoms, sprouted from the top.  _So this is inner peace,_  thought Giles as he lifted the glass.

“Here’s to  _us_ ,” said Travers, lifting his own matching drink, from his matching deck chair, his matching striped cotton blanket thrown across his matching pajamas. Travers’s smile stretched wide as a cavern—

Giles jerked awake in his berth, back arched, gasping for air. Sweet portals of hell. Here he’d thought he’d  _left_  the Hellmouth.

He pushed back the covers and sat up, reaching for his glasses. The sun, coming in the porthole-style window, was still low. The hands of the little round clock on the nightstand read 5:41.

It was hard to guess what might be the best way to avoid Travers for the seven days of the crossing: was the man a night owl, holding forth pompously until the wee hours, and then sleeping in? Or was he a rigid, pre-dawn calisthenics sort, barking orders? There was no way to know for sure, but Giles decided to bet on pomposity. After all, he was already awake. And the gangly young porter who’d shown them their cabins had indicated that they were welcome to help themselves in the officers’ kitchen at any hour, given how few guests were on board for the first leg of the ship’s maiden run.

He admired the accouterments again as he dressed. The cabin was sleek and state-of-the-art; everything snicked and whispered, designed to unobtrusively hold itself in place against the possibility of rough seas. It had been nearly automatic to slip his novel under the book strap on the night table. The double-bell alarm clock, though classic, was oddly dated in this setting; and his merely old trunk, tucked away in the closet, appeared positively ancient.

He found his shoes and his key card, and a small bag he could stock with provisions in case evasive maneuvers required that he hole-up for an extended period. Then he peered out the peephole. Travers’ room was at the far end to his left, between his room and the elevators. He slid his own door open silently, darting his head out to double-check before he emerged to walk swiftly around the corner to the right.

Ah, yes. Stairs.

 

Giles had climbed two stories before he decided to cut through the ship to find the elevator bank. The floor he had chosen was dark, with only every third hallway sconce lit. The hallways were designed for crowds; alone, he felt small, as though he’d woken in a hotel built for trolls. The rocking movement of the ship was a bare flicker at the edge of awareness, as though things were moving just out of view.

The corridor turned twice instead of the once he expected. He found himself entering a dim, cavernous theater with a raised stage at one end. He came to a stop among tables draped in protective white cloths.

A flutter in the shadows caught his eye. For a moment, he thought he’d interrupted something private, and averted his gaze; but then the side door quickly opened and shut. When he looked again there was only the porter from the previous evening, moving towards him unsteadily. Giles wondered if perhaps the fellow — Dan, wasn’t it? — had been drinking.

“Mr. Giles! Didn’t expect anyone up and about so early!”

“Ah, yes, well … unaccustomed to the nautical life, I suppose. But I do appear to have lost my bearings.”

“That’s easy to do on these unoccupied floors. We’ll be getting them all prepped and open in time for New York, but we’ve only a dozen or so guests for the repositioning leg. The two of you, and some family of the crew.” Dan stumbled a bit and caught himself against a chair back, giving Giles a small smile. “I might suggest not getting off the elevator if it opens on a dark hallway.”

“Are you quite all right? You look rather peaked,” said Giles.

“Just a head rush,” said Dan. Somehow, his smile only accentuated his pallor, the circles like bruises under his eyes. “Take those doors to the right of the stage, and make a right. You’ll come out at the elevators.”

Giles willed away his unease. “My thanks.” He walked briskly towards the far doors, his steps echoing.

“See you for dinner!” called Dan. “Seven o’clock!”

 

***

 

Giles sat in a plump armchair, absently tracing the upholstery tacks that followed the curves of the leather around the wooden frame. The ship’s library was a pleasant surprise. Already fully stocked with books, it was dotted with quiet reading nooks. A prominent shelf was devoted to the history of nautical science, with a display case full of antiquated navigational devices just below. Sectants and octants, astrolabes and chronometers: the names themselves lent the room a scholarly air. It wasn’t as expansive as the library from his dream this morning — but then, comparison to a dream library wasn’t quite fair.

He had so far entirely avoided Travers. In fact, he’d barely seen a living being since running into Dan. He’d glimpsed some crew assembling furniture in the main dining hall as he’d passed, and there’d been a bored-looking woman dusting a table in the hallway when he’d gone back to drop off emergency provisions in his room. But a repositioning cruise, it seemed, truly was all about getting the ship from one hemisphere to another; having a dozen or so passengers was an afterthought. It was reassuring to realize there would be no shuffleboard competition, no third-rate lounge singers, no required-participation karaoke.

He was, however, not without planned activities of his own. He was going to finish his Aubrey-Maturin book,  _The Nutmeg of Consolation_. Onboard a ship, on an enforced vacation, he was going to make it through the fourteenth volume of what was well-accepted as one of the greatest sagas of historical fiction ever written.

He opened the book to his marker, and searched for his place.

There he was. Exactly there. Yes.  

Good.

Giles noticed that the carpet was so new as to have no marks whatsoever, except where the nap changed direction in little fan shapes from a recent vacuuming. He noticed the shifting pattern on the ceiling, a product of light bouncing up off the surface of the sea through the portals. And then he noticed the shoe.

The shoe protruded from the next reading nook over, its wearer concealed from Giles’ view by shelving. A brown oxford, not itself new, but with fresh laces. It was not unlike a shoe he himself would wear. Or, he realized, the shoes he was currently wearing.

The shoe’s person was probably one of the crew members’ family, taking a budget voyage to New York. Or possibly the Captain. Perhaps an educated person, intelligent and companionable. Obviously, it was at the very least the shoe of a person with an interest in books. He shifted slightly in his chair to see better, but all that got him was a less-than-informative glimpse of pants leg.

Giles cleaned his glasses thoughtfully. A companion, a genial companion with similar interests, could transform his journey from a ongoing meditation on his loathsome former employer into an opportunity for adult conversation — something he rarely enjoyed on the Hellmouth. They could discuss books, languages, etymology … the nature of good and evil. To let such an opportunity pass him by would be foolish.

He replaced his bookmark and rose. He would casually take the opposing chair in the nook, and then strike up a conversation. No doubt the shoe-wearer would be equally pleased. He walked nonchalantly around the shelving, focusing on the empty chair, pleasantly arrayed in a extended oval of sun. He sat, arranged his book just so, and removed the marker. Then he raised his eyes to — Giles froze in place.

Travers gave him a bemused smile. “I say, old chap. What are the chances?” He raised his own book so Giles could see the three-masted ship on the cover of  _The Nutmeg of Consolation_. Travers leaned forward and said intently, “The best nautical fiction since  _Moby Dick_ , don’t you agree?”    

Giles wished desperately that he could jolt awake from the nightmare, just one more time.

  

The fact that Travers was galloping through  _Nutmeg_  at a breakneck pace was oddly comforting. Giles’ inability to wade through it — he saw it now for not a failure, but a mark of righteousness. He was a true Watcher: companion, teacher, and occasional fuddy-duddy foil of the Chosen One. Travers and the Aubrey-Maturin books, by contrast, were demonic instruments.

Any suspicion that Travers’ enjoyment was pretense was belied by the man’s total engagement. He smiled, he frowned; he huffed with impatience, and he grimaced at setbacks. Once, he stamped his foot. Watching Travers read  _Nutmeg_  told the story at least as clearly, and far more entertainingly, than reading the book itself.

All at once, he snapped the book closed and looked at Giles. “Oh,” he said. “ _Oh_.”

“Oh,” said Giles, at a loss.

Travers let out an enormous sigh. He gazed at Giles in presumed fellowship. “The  _platypus_ ,” he said meaningfully. “Who would have  _imagined_.”

Giles carefully considered the locations of the library exits.

“Ah, well ... it doesn’t do to talk experiences like that to death, does it? The reading — the reading’s the thing,” said Travers warmly. He waved his book at Giles. “As close to true adventure as a pencil pusher like myself is ever likely to come.”

Giles blinked.

“You, on the other hand … out in the field. The very midst of the action.” Travers leaned back in his chair, his gaze dreamily unfocused for a moment. He suddenly shook his head, and looked at Giles again. “Well. Someone must struggle with the loathsome bean counters. Sadly, it falls to me. Shall we find a serious drink somewhere? On the Council, of course.”

Giles reconsidered his plan to flee.

 

***

 

Travers reached the top of the dark stairs first, flinging open the door and staggering to the side of the deck. He sank down against it.

“You see …” He lifted his finger authoritatively and paused. “A vampire walks into a bar …”

Giles wove forward to the cold metal railing and collapsed against it, giggling helplessly.

“The Watcher – the bartender is a Watcher –” Travers was too overcome by soundless laughter to continue.

Giles raised his glasses to dab at his eyes, then stared out across the water, handkerchief forgotten. Star-lit swells rolled rhythmically as far as the eye could see. Spray hit his face. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “ _The tide unchanging_ …”  

“Wasn’t there a pool on the top deck?” said Travers.

“I do not think you name it a  _tide_  so far from shore. No? A  _swell_  … or perhaps a  _crescent_  — no, no, how do you say, a  _crest_?” said a melodious voice.

Giles turned, gripping the rail for support. At first he saw no one; then a white blur moved, detaching itself from the shadow of the stair bulkhead. As it approached, it resolved into the face and neck of a woman. Her dark hair and dress fluttered like shadows themselves.

“ _Swells_ , perhaps, yes …  _swells_ ,” said Giles, obscurely pleased to be corrected. “Quite right.”

“A  _crest_  would be wrong,” barked Travers.

“And perhaps another word for  _unchanging_ , as well.” She ignored Travers as she stepped closer. She had dark, intelligent eyes; Giles felt a pang as he was reminded of Jenny. “For they are change, though constant. Perhaps you mean …  _ceaseless_?”

“ _Unending_ ,” said Travers, less abruptly than before. “ _Eternal_.” He began to struggle to his feet, then gave up and sank back down.

“ _Eternal_ ,” said the woman, now turning to Travers with a faint smile. “I love words — and your English, it is so rich with them — but  _eternal_  is difficult to truly understand. Tell me, how does your joke end?”

Giles hadn’t realized that the woman, too, had a companion, until another blurred shape moved behind her. He removed his glasses and fished again in his pocket for his handkerchief, rubbing at the salt spray.

When he looked back up, he realized to his surprise that it was Dan. The porter looked better, though his skin was so pale as to appear nearly silver.

“Do you need assistance, Mr. Travers?” asked Dan, silkily. He was awkward no longer. He glided forward, reaching down to take Travers’ outstretched hand with a terrible, sinuous grace. Giles felt himself suddenly as sober as an ice cube. His stakes, his holy water, his weapons — they were all still tucked under the false bottom of his travel trunk, floors below. He gripped the rail harder, preparing to yank Travers away from the changed man, and almost closed his eyes in relief when he felt the warm wood give, slightly, in his palm. He put all his weight into it, and heard a sharp crack.

As he lunged forward, the boards of the deck surged, rising up like an ocean swell. Dan was tossed straight at him, onto the make-shift stake and dusted, all so quickly that Giles nearly fell in expectation of an impact that never came. Travers had grabbed at his coat, pitching forward as well, and their combined weights swung them dizzily around until they faced the railing from mid-ship.

The woman stood between them and the broken railing now. Giles braced for an attack; instead she looked past them, her hair tumbling forward around her face in the breeze. “A pity,” she said absently. “He had the makings of a sweetling, once his wild years were past.” Her gaze suddenly sharpened on Giles. “Though now I fear he was lucky, no?”

Travers had been fumbling in his shirt, and now brandished a small silver cross. His knuckles were tight around it. Giles could see the shorter man was shaking as he stepped between them. “You are right to be afraid, vile—”

She was instantly there, plucking the cross out of his grip to examine it. “Such an elegant thing. Delicate. But I never converted, little Englishman. And I believe we all face greater troubles.”

“Troubles?” said Giles. A terrible screeching arose from behind him.

“Oh – oh!”

Her evident shock was so great that despite his better judgment, he looked. And then turned entirely around. He didn’t realized he had backed up and was standing next to the vampiress until Travers bumped into him from the other side.

The fresh white deck boards were flying up, contorting, and resettling as broad, gnarled planks in erratic rows. Towards the middle of the ship, they erupted upwards with a roar, leaving a gaping hole.

Out of the darkness a massive white pipe rose, metal screaming against wood as it twisted its way up. More distantly, the deck warped and swelled; a mast burst through. Yards sprouted sideways from it as it rose, sails dropping and unfolding like giant, new leaves.

Giles lost his footing and fell forward as the deck beneath them shifted again; the edge of the boat arced upwards, making way for an immense paddle-wheel. “ _The Nutmeg of Consolation!_ ” cried Travers.

“No, no. A steamer!” said the vampiress. She pulled Giles to his feet as though he were a child. “It is become an old steamer. I crossed in such a one when I was young.”

“The airplanes,” said Giles. A third eruption began, closer. The woman began moving towards the prow, inexplicably tugging them both along with her. “New things turning old,” he shouted as the deck began to creak upward in a new eruption. “Magic failing by vintage!”

The ship listed alarmingly to the side, water washing over the farthest part of the deck.

“We should find the, how do you say, the  _boat of life_?” said the vampiress.

“I need my weapons," said Giles.

"And the sextant, from the library," said Travers.

“You two find the little boat, and I will go for the sextant,” said the vampiress. Her brows knit. “If there is still a library.”

“Why should we trust you to get it?” said Travers.

“Trust, or not trust.” She shrugged. “I will not seek out your Watcher-weapons. But if the boat fills quickly, I do not drown below."

“Madam,” said Giles. “Your fangs are showing.”

She gave him the slightest twitch of a smile around her teeth. “I am, how do you say? I am  _terrorized_."

" _Terrified_ ," said Travers, nodding emphatically.

She turned away, walking swiftly across the still reforming deck to the nearest jagged hole, and was suddenly gone, dropping feet-first through the dark opening.

 

***

 

Giles sighed, and shifted his weight — very carefully, for fear of upsetting the raft. The image he’d had in mind when they’d set off to find a lifeboat bore no resemblance to what they’d found: a row of large white canisters on an angled rack. When they’d managed to release one to drop to the water below, no sooner had it begun to self-inflate than it also began to devolve. Airtight vinyl chambers had blown out in huffs, transforming into wooden planks even as the motor strove to inflate them.

Travers was now slumped over, shivering, in the middle of what the raft had become: an oddball section of upper deck, with a strange edge that suddenly swooped downward into the water, perhaps where a steamer paddle would have fit. It barely bore their weight; water washed across the surface with every swell. Unexpected currents beneath caught at the downward sweep like a poorly designed fin, causing sudden wild spins. He was thankful no crew attempted to join them.

They’d now floated some distance from the sinking ship.  _The Carpathian Princess_ , or rather the steamer that she had become, hung nearly vertical in the water, a little more than a third of it visible above the waves. The tip of the middle mast still bobbed above the surface, sails bulging irregularly up from the water between it and the deck where they had trapped air.

As Giles watched, a figure emerged from one of the rifts in the deck near the prow. Even from this distance, it had to be the vampiress: she climbed the deck easily until she stood, steady, at the top. Her dive was unhesitating, a graceful arc to the sea.    

Her head broke the surface only once in her swim to the raft. When she reached them, she nearly capsized it as she swung herself up. Immune to the cold, she now sat at the edge, her back to the men, legs and skirt hanging in the water.

“Well,” said Giles, breaking the silence. “We are at least afloat.”

The vampiress turned and looked at him. “Yes,” she said dryly. “For some amount of time, we are afloat.” She pulled a strap off over her head and tossed a bag to him; it clanked.

Giles opened the drawstring top. It held the instruments from the display case in the library, antiques all jumbled together and drenched with sea water. He pulled out a fat brass spyglass; it was heavy and engraved. He absently extended it to its full length, then collapsed it back again.

“Ah — madam?”

“Kizzy. I can be Kizzy.”

“Kizzy,” he said. “If you don’t mind — why bring these to us? I mean, why try to help?”

“I help myself as well, no?” said Kizzy. “I do not know how to use these, these  _instrumente nautice_. Also, I did not know there would be no little boat to steer with them.”

The raft suddenly caught a current and spun, dragging Kizzy’s legs sideways.

Travers had sat up, and said in a low voice, “Do you mean to kill us?”

"Tell me, why should I kill you, if you do not try to kill me? We are on a sinking ... chunk of wood, and in some hours comes the sun.” She gave a small shrug. "And I have already eaten."

She peered down between her knees, at the water, leaning forward. When she spoke again her voice was soft. "I do not know how far down I must go, to escape the sunlight. Very far, I think. I do not think I will find this little raft again if I go. I do not like thinking how many years I may spend there, with the great beasts of the depths, before I find a way to shore."

Reddish light suddenly reflected off the water; there were flames licking up the further edge of the larger ship.

“Dan,” said Giles. “You’re not hungry because you ate Dan.”

“I loosed his soul, and gave him something else. You loosed his demon, and gave him nothing. He could not live with nothing.”

“You made him a monster,” said Travers.

“All men are monsters,” said Kizzy. “When it is safe to be a monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to the late Patrick O'Brian, The Nutmeg of Consolation, and their many fans! I’ve always been someone who could read anything, but I was not able to finish the first book in the Aubrey-Maturin series, much less number fourteen. I'm sure I'd know the difference between a spar and a boom if I had. That said, Nutmeg was published about the right time for Giles to have it with him, and the title makes me laugh every single time I write it. 
> 
> I'm kind of guessing at Kizzy's accent -- if any readers are actually Carpathian princesses and would be up for helping me proof her speech patterns, please get in touch. 
> 
> Happy reading, all of you. ¡Quepert 4EVR!


	8. It's About Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to OffYourBird, for giving this several reads and providing valuable feedback! Also a little shoutout to Gort, who once suggested the phrase “in a blink” on a different story. I liked it so much I have used it again. 
> 
> And not least, my heartfelt appreciation to those readers who have stuck with the story despite very slow updates. The smutty bit, in particular, is for y’all.

Xander had lost track of exactly where Willow was in the latest rendition of her half-whispered rant.  It didn’t matter.  He’d given up trying to provide soothing interjections when it became clear they had no power to sooth.  Besides, this version was no different than the previous evening’s.  He understood feeling terrible about landing Buffy deep in love with an evil undead guy who just recently had been trying to kill her, but going on and on about it wasn’t helping. 

His eyes drifted across Giles’ table to Anya, who was studying one of Buffy’s bridal magazines with a tiny scowl.  He loved Anya.  He was sad every time he woke up and realized she hadn’t stayed over, and he wanted to share every idea he had with her.  But he couldn’t imagine asking her to marry him.  Not just because it was such an adult thing.  He was uncomfortably aware that adult things … well, they were beginning to apply.  It was more like the ideas didn’t feel connected.  Why should the warmth and partnership he felt with her involve stepping forward into a role they would share with a billion other couples? Why should it change every other relationship in his life?  His legal status? 

What did love really have to do with marriage, anyway? 

There was a thump from the hallway where Buffy was still getting ready, no doubt with Spike since they were now joined at the —

Oh, great gods.

Xander swallowed hard. “Willow,” he said.  “Do you remember exactly what you said about Buffy during the will-be-done spell?  Like … specifically?”

Willow paused in her diatribe.  “Something about getting together with Spike?  I mean, the exact wording hardly matters, it is completely obvious what I’ve done …”

“I think it might matter. I think you said that Buffy and Spike should _get married_.”

“I know!” said Willow.  “And I know it was wrong, but you don’t need to keep beating me up over it — I’m trying to fix it.  I didn’t even really think I could pull off such a major spell.”

 “That’s not what I meant,” said Xander. 

 “It’s just hard, you know, if I can’t use a reversal spell and there’s no one who knows about this stuff—”

 “It’s too bad you don’t know anyone who has been dealing with magic for longer than anyone else here has been alive,” said Anya, looking up at the ceiling.

 “Right?  Wouldn’t you think on a Hellmouth there’d be all sorts of practitioners?  I mean, I guess there’s fuzzy little Amy … which reminds me.  I should stop by Paws ’n’ Claws on the way home.”

 “You’re missing my point,” said Xander.  “I was trying to say …” 

 

***

  

Buffy checked herself a last time in the bathroom mirror, and then headed toward the living room to join the meeting — and was swung around by a cool hand hooking her elbow.  Spike pushed her up against the wall, just out of sight from the Scoobies, and slid his knee between hers.

“Shouldn’t hurry along,” he teased.  “You’ll interrupt an important discussion.”

“I thought your head still hurt,” said Buffy.

“Still does.  Help me forget.” Spike gave her a long kiss. 

“I helped you forget for hours already.  That’s why I’m late.”  She nibbled her way up his chin and said into his ear, “Is it really an important discussion?” 

“Hardly,” said Spike.  “Talking right past each other.”  He took a step back and caught his tongue between his teeth.  She couldn’t look away as he sank slowly to his knees, sliding his hands up between her hips and the fabric of her skirt.

“I should join them,” she said weakly.  Spike hiked her skirt the rest of the way up.  He leaned forward and ran the tip of his tongue up the center of her panties; she whimpered.  “I called them here…”  She felt the snap of elastic giving way.

Spike gave a little jerk at something, and in an instant everything about him changed. He suddenly looked so _young_. “Buffy,” he whispered, not teasing at all.  He stared up at her wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open, her destroyed panties forgotten in his hand. 

“What?” she said, bewildered.  “What is it?”

 “Buffy,” he said again.  “You really love me?”

“Of course I do,” she whispered back.  “What—” 

She didn’t have a chance to finish; Spike had stood and was kissing her, one arm cradling her head and the other strong up her back, as though trying to pull her inside him. 

 

*** 

 

Willow had scrunched up her face.  “You’re right, you’re so right!  I have to face up to it.  _I_ did this.  I have to talk to Buffy, a real heart-to-heart, and make her see this isn’t really _her_.” 

“Willow,” said Xander again.

“I wouldn’t,” said Anya.  “Love, and the spells that tap into it  … they’re tremendously powerful. Unpredictable. I’d just let things run their course.” She turned the page of the magazine. “Ooo, backless!”

There was a thud from the hall, and Buffy came in from the hallway, stumbling on something. Her cheeks were pink.

“Hey, guys!  I’m so glad you’re here!”

“You did call a meeting,” said Xander gamely. 

“For half an hour ago,” said Anya.  “But I am very much enjoying this article about expensive dream wedding gowns.”

“Buffy,” said Willow resolutely, “I really need to talk to you.”

“I know!” said Buffy.  “I know —  I’ve barely been back to the dorm this week, and we have serious issues to discuss.” She smoothed her skirt.

“Oh.  Well, good! I’m, I’m glad you want to discuss them.” Willow reached for her coffee with relief.

“Yeah, me too!” said Buffy.  “I mean, I’m so glad you’re here and _willing_ to discuss them.”

Willow stopped with the cup halfway to her lips. “What?”

“I mean, I know it’s uncomfortable, but we need to figure out exactly what you said to cause all this.”

“Oh!  Oh, right. Xander was just asking …”

“I mean, did you wish for … I dunno … an end to modern lighting?”  Buffy gestured towards the bathroom.  “Did you voice a long-standing grudge about airplanes?”

“Oh, I get it,” said Xander.  “All this weird everything-old-is-new-again stuff — it’s from the Willow-be-done.”

“No,” said Willow.  “No.  I didn’t wish for — for rolling brownouts, or exploding car engines, and this is _not_ the issue we have to talk about.”

“I do like the way the street lamps are all gas lighting now in town,” said Anya, nodding at Willow.  “Not as bright, but very flattering.  Good job.” 

“No!” said Willow, rising from her chair. “That wasn’t me! I didn’t wish for anything like that! And besides, this is world-wide — I don’t think a little wish could even do that!”

“A _hem_ ,” said Anya, slapping the magazine onto the table.  “Even if you can’t remember exactly how you caused it, the good news is that most practitioner spells eventually wear off.  You know.  Unlike _granted wishes_.”  She studied her nails with a dark look. 

“So,” said Buffy. “This should all just wear off? That’s good to know.”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t—”

“And then there’s another thing: I may need your help cornering Riley at class to interrogate him about the commandos.”

“Can we just go back to the spell for a minute? Because I am absolutely positive —”

“Oh!  And there’s _another_ ‘nother thing I need to talk to you about.  I’d been thinking about it as though it only affected me.  But, I mean, you’re my maid of honor — wait, have I even asked you?  I mean, I just assumed…”

Buffy stared at her with such honest alarm that Willow found herself stammering. “I … I … of course I would, if …”

“No ifs,” said Buffy firmly.  “You are my best friend.  But what I wanted to talk about were colors. Because, you know, you’ll be stuck wearing them, and Spike —” She gave a smile that was somehow at once enthusiastic and abashed. “Spike wants black and white for the whole good and evil union thing. But it seems kinda too, too …”  She searched for a word.

Xander said, “Clichéd?  Pat?  Too much like a comic book?”

“Yes!  I mean, I know it’s already kind of —”

“Joyce!” cried Willow.  “I mean, have you talked to your mom about the whole ‘I’m marrying a vampire’ thing?  Because you do _not_ want to go against family on something like this.”

Buffy winced.  “Blue.”

“Huh?” 

“She wants black and white and baby blue.  It would look like … a prom or something.”

Willow sank back down in her chair. 

“Then again,” said Buffy, “given that it’s _my_ wedding, it might be just like my prom.  We may end up burning down a bridal hall of vampires.”

“Arm the ushers,” said Xander.  “Consider me on it.” 

 

***

 

Class had been cancelled. Willow had seemed strangely out of sorts, and had headed off to some Wicca thing. 

Buffy had checked all the obvious places for Riley, fruitlessly.  Lowell House felt echoey and abandoned, the lounges were a bust, and the cafeteria had stayed Riley-free for hours while she had played with her slowly melting frozen yoghurt. For a guy who she’d been bumping into everywhere before her engagement, he’d managed to make himself mighty scarce after.  Maybe deliberately. 

So for stage two of Operation Riley, she’d gone incognito.  Buffy was pleased with her disguise:  an oversized sweatshirt, hood up to conceal her hair, and a big pair of sunglasses she’d stolen from Joyce years ago.  She was totally getting down with the skulking, crossing the quad towards the administrative offices as the evening light turned gold.  

There were only a few straggling students.  Although the campus was adjusting to the regular power outages with the ready denial that came so easily to Sunnydale citizens, it was still a Hellmouth.  Students with survival instincts didn’t stay out late on a campus where the lights might or might not be working after dark.  A worker in brown overalls struggled to light the new-old gas lamps with a tool on a long pole. 

It occurred to her that she also hadn’t seen so much as a glimpse of Riley’s friends — those strapping guys who assisted Professor Walsh, and seemed to travel everywhere in groups.  She’d assumed they were different because they were all from non-coastal America, a mysterious land where boys didn’t really grow into awkward stages that they then had to struggle out of.  But now that she thought about it, that whole group seemed a little … _mature_ for college kids.  A little _disciplined_.  A little like they might swing into squadron formation at any moment, and use walkie-talkies on a regular basis.

Inside the building, the hallway that led to Professor Walsh’s wing was especially quiet.  That was odd too, now that Buffy was in a questioning frame of mind. Walsh had these corridors almost to herself, and the smattering of other offices didn’t relate to psychology.  The doors she passed sported labels for professors of mechanical engineering, nursing, robotics — she hadn’t even known Sunnydale U offered robotics courses.

She rounded the corner to see a gaggle of students gathered around Professor Walsh’s door, reading a sign tacked there. One of them stood out, though his back was to her and the hood of his sweatshirt concealed his head:  square shoulders and an athletic build.  She narrowed her eyes.

“Hey,” she chirped as she got close.  “Why the crowd?”

A guy in a polo shirt answered glumly, “Class is cancelled _until further notice_.  No explanation.”

“What are we supposed to do?  I have to stay fully enrolled to keep my scholarship,” said a girl.

Buffy tugged on Sweatshirt’s arm, as though in a friendly gesture, but making sure she got a good grip on the cloth.  “I can’t see.”

He turned halfway toward her in annoyance, and she recognized him.  “Hiya!” She gave him a big fake smile and tightened her grip.  “Forrest! You know, I was just looking for Riley—”

He shoved her with unexpected vigor, his sweatshirt tearing in her hand, then pushed the girl who had been complaining straight at her as he barreled away through the stairwell door.

But not before she’d seen enough to know that Forrest was no longer exactly Forrest.  The smile he’d smiled at her hadn’t been out of a wholly human face: a metal plate came down over one now-mechanical eye.  And the hand he’d used to push the girl at her had been glazed and crackled — an artificial hand with strange tapered fingers, like a hand for a human-sized porcelain doll, mounted on a metal wrist built of gears. 

By the time Buffy disentangled herself and got the girl up, he was of course gone.  Buffy considered combing the halls for him — but though he could have climbed the stairs, he could have also left the building, and headed in any direction. Besides, there’d been no hint of demon about him, no tingly warnings.  He’d been creepy — but perhaps, just this once, it was a kind of creepy that she wasn’t responsible for.  Had he had a prosthetic hand that had turned antique?  Just another side effect of Willow’s spell? But she couldn’t help but think she would have noticed that at some point — in the cafeteria, or out on the quad.  And she was certain he hadn’t had half a prosthetic face.

 

***

 

Buffy wound through the tombstones, heading home — that was how she was beginning to think of Giles’ apartment.  Her home with Spike.  _I’m marrying Spike, Spike, Spike, I’m marrying Spike…_ When Giles found his way back from England, they would have to find someplace for the two of them.  Though with air travel at a standstill, that might be a long time off.

Not that Giles would really mind the delay.  He was probably sitting, right now, in some posh reading room with oriental rugs and stained-glass lamps, perusing the most obscure volumes of the Council library, a perfect cup of tea at hand. He probably hadn’t cleaned his glasses in vexation since the day he’d left Sunnydale.  

 _I’m marrying Spike_ … 

That morning, in the hall — Spike had been so entirely undone.  She was accustomed to his many defenses, had in fact always kind of admired how front and center they were.  The hair and the duster, the swagger and the superbly casual slouch.  His relentless taunting when he could fight, the cutting snark once he couldn’t.  The elegant flick of his lighter, even though she had noticed he didn’t seem to smoke very much of the many cigarettes he lit.  

But what made his many layers of armor so appealing was how fantastically they failed to conceal him.  Even when she’d thought of him as The Big Bad she’d been aware of his heart.  She’d known he would give up anything for Drusilla; she’d known that if they made a deal together, he’d come through.  Her fiancé of course had his flaws — evil creature of darkness, after all — but they only made his finer qualities shine the brighter. 

And that moment today, when he’d let his defenses fall away and had just stared up at her in vulnerable wonder — she didn’t even know how to explain how perfectly _Spike_ that was.  But she knew, from how he’d hidden away afterward, that she needed to find a way to tell him.  She needed him to know how his heart moved her. 

 

She was so deep into her thoughts that she’d been experiencing warning tinglies for some time before she recognized them for what they were.  A single vampire, somewhere in the copse of trees to the right.  She moved more quietly; she didn’t want a long fight tonight, just a quick slay and then home.  Pulling a stake from her backpack, she let her senses lead her through the trees.

There was crashing ahead.  Someone wasn’t worrying about being quiet at all, and was coming towards her with a strange, rhythmic wheezing. 

She had reached a small clearing when the vampire came in view. 

 _Was_ it a vampire?

It had a vampire face — distorted and stretched in horror, though, and the horror was not directed at her.  It trundled forward, but it gaped down at itself, at where its ribcage belled out to make room for a furnace, the iron door unlatched and swinging.  A tattered and singed garment like a hospital gown flapped around it — but there was nothing to cover now anyway, nothing anatomically human below his ribs.  A large rusty wheel to the side churned unevenly, driving piston-legs —

The vamp lifted its eyes to her face.  “Slayer,” said the vamp.  And then, even as it was reaching for a fallen branch, cracking in two and shoving it into the fire, “Kill me.  Slayer.  _Please, kill me_.”

The creature kept coming at her, helpless horror on his face, the flywheel turning, a puff of steam escaping from behind it with a hiss.  Her stake — somehow she had dropped it.  She fell to her knees, scrabbling through the leaf mold.  She could feel the heat from the furnace on her face as her hand closed on the familiar wooden shaft. 

The creature’s heart, thankfully, was in the normal place, and he dusted the normal way when her stake found it.  His dust settled onto the moist loam, but pieces of his lower half fell to earth:  a metal canister with some sort of elaborate pipework, and something else she heard thud but had been too close to see fall.  She sat back on her heels.

There were still noises in the woods, other things approaching.  She’d been so aghast she’d let her stake dust along with him.  Or it.  No, _him_ ; he had still had a vampire face, at least, and vampires had genders, and his last plea hadn’t been the plea of a … a machine.  She rose to her feet and brushed at the dirt on her skirt and the leaves on the hoodie. 

When she recognized the two figures that crashed into the clearing, she pulled on the best perky-freshman face she could manage. “Riley!  Is that you?  I’ve been looking for you.” 

“Uh,” said Riley, visibly collecting himself. “Oh.  Hey Buffy!”  His smile was near a grimace.  He was cleaner than last time she’d seen him, but he looked more exhausted.  And he’d clearly been hot on the trail of that … furnace-vamp. 

There was an awkward silence.  The guy beside Riley was trying to pry the burrs off his army-issue vest and look casual.  She wondered if either of them remembered they had camouflage paint across their faces.  

Buffy decided to dissemble a little longer. “You know, I realized I didn’t tell you: the wedding’s not til next year. So, you know, we should totally plan to hang out before that.  You should really meet Spike.”

“Uh, right,” said Riley.  “Wedding.”

“Graham, right?” said Buffy to the other man.  She tilted her head.  “You two on your way somewhere?”

“We were just chasing a … a guy who grabbed a purse …” said Riley, with a vague wave at the trees.

“Riiiight,” said Buffy.  “Fraid I haven’t seen a purse-snatcher in the graveyard tonight.  Were you going to some sort of costume party after that?”

They both stared at her.

“Guys.  The uniforms. And the face paint.”

“Yes!” said Riley.  “Absolutely.  A costume party.  We’re going as … as those little plastic soldiers.  Y’know, but…”

“Big,” supplied Graham.

“Yee-ah,” said Buffy.  She tried to inconspicuously circle them a little; she didn’t see any signs of gears, or pistons, or over-sized doll parts.  They just looked like very young, very tired soldiers.  At her movement they had dropped out of fake-casual mode into defensive stances.

“So I guess you’re probably meeting Forrest there.”

Graham’s face froze.  Riley’s mouth hung open for a moment before he formed words.  “You … saw Forrest?”

“Yeah, just now in the Psych hall,” said Buffy. “He was checking out the note on Walsh’s office door.”

“ _In_ the school,” said Graham.  He and Riley exchanged a long look.  Buffy realized that if you went ashen, wearing crazy face paint, it started to look really stark.

“That is where Professor Walsh’s office door is. Right there in front of her office.”  She dropped the playful tone and let her voice get hard.  “Forrest, now — well, he’s your buddy.  You’ve probably noticed he’s looking a little different lately.”

“Was, was … Walsh there?” asked Riley.

“No,” said Buffy.  She took a step closer to the two men.  “How about we actually talk.  You’re _scared_.  What’s going on?”

“N—nothing,” said Riley.  “It’s just …”  He looked at her hopelessly.

“Let me see if I can help,” said Buffy.  “You two are part of some sort of government-sponsored monster squad—”

“We have to go,” said Graham abruptly.  He grabbed Riley by the shoulder and started pulling him out of the clearing.

“Hang on,” said Buffy.  “I am so not finished!”

“Uh, Buffy, uh … about Walsh,” said Riley. “And Forrest.  If you see either of them — they’re not themselves.  Steer clear, way clear.”

“Wait a minute,” said Buffy.  “Are you suggesting there’s something dangerous in Sunnydale?  No way.”

“Riley, we’ve got to _move_ ,” said Graham. “He’ll get away.”

Riley stepped backward as Graham tugged him around, but he caught her eyes.  “Buffy —” He struggled for words, then shook his head.  “Just be careful.”  He turned then, and followed Graham out of the clearing.

Buffy didn’t bother answering as the sound of their passage faded away.  She turned towards home.  That warning about Walsh, of all people — what was that about?  She could be scary about class attendance, for sure, and the prospect of her mid-term was terrifying, but…  

She remembered what Spike had said about the commandos:  fond of experiments.  This was Sunnydale, possibly the worst place in the world to experiment.  Unless you were experimenting with ending the world. For that it was absolutely prime real estate.  Or, she supposed, if you wanted to practice modifying vampires.

She turned half sideways to go down the steep slope where the woods ended at the street.

If Walsh was part of the secret group that had experimented on Spike, and all her assistants were part of it too — okay, Buffy felt a little stupid about having flirted with one of them so cluelessly. She probably should have just assumed that any college she attended would in fact host a secret demon-experimentation facility.

On the other hand, it suddenly seemed a lot more likely that Willow could be right.  Maybe her spell wasn’t the cause of all the reverting technological stuff that was going on. Maybe this secret group had taken their experimentation a little too far in the supernatural direction.  Maybe it had started with the demons and spread to the commandos, like Forrest.

When she rounded the corner into Giles’ courtyard, for a moment all thoughts of the soldiers and the bizarre creature fell away. 

Spike was home.  Judging from the soft light coming from the windows, the power was out again. 

Or maybe her fiancé was just feeling particularly romantic. 

She let herself in.  Giles’ apartment was showing clear signs of changed circumstances.  A hurricane lamp sat at one end of the table, a collection of candles on a plate at the other.  Vinyl albums were stacked against the bookcase, sorted according to some mysterious vampire system.  Spike had his back to her, and was singing a little as he filled a trash bag; something punchy about fingers and toes.  He was wearing jeans and nothing else, his hair wet and tousled. 

She toed off her shoes and added them to the growing pile by the door. She loved his hair like this, before he combed it into a helmet — another Spike defense.  She wanted to run her fingers through that hair. 

Though they should talk first.  She had so much to tell him, her realization about the way she loved all the parts of him, and the way those parts came together.  And she’d had good words for it earlier, though it was hard to think of them now looking at his bare back — it was a really good back.  And of course, he should also know what she suspected about the group that had held him, that the University might be involved and have gotten in too deep.

As he swept the collection of carry-out containers and plastic tubs that had gathered on the counter into the bag, the movement and slight curl of his neck made her catch her breath.

There was a lot of talking to do.  It was important that they talk.

But it was imperative that she slide her hands up his back, and then curl them around over his chest and pull him against her.  And it was necessary that she breathe against the nape of his neck and then settle her cheek in the dip of his shoulder, nuzzling, as she let her hands dive lower to unbutton his fly.   

He turned in the circle of her arms, muscular and sensual as a cat. His eyes were dark in the candlelight, and he went after her mouth with slow, hungry deliberation that turned her to jelly.

They could talk later.

Spike walked her backwards towards the bedroom. She was willing to relocate, as long as it didn’t interrupt the kissing.  They lurched into the wall of the dark hallway, banged into the door frame. She wasn’t giving up the groping, either, to make progress — all the hard muscle under cool, velvety skin, and all of it hers. The foyer table tipped.  She heard something small and heavy roll across the floor.  

“Spike,” she said when his lips made a detour towards her ear.  “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Mmm,” said Spike, slipping an arm under her — and how had they made it in here to the bed?  The mattress hit the back of her knees, and his arm ensured she went down softly into the nest of blankets.  When he moved away, she stretched out blindly to pull him back; but then the soft snick of his lighter stopped her as he lit a candle.  

He used that one to light another, and then another, and she could see why they’d hit the bed so soon.  Spike had redecorated.  The bed was in the center of the room now, at an angle, piled high with pillows.  Spike moved to the vanity to light another cluster of candles, and then to another on a hardwood chair placed against the wall the bed used to occupy.  The light on the walls and ceiling flickered gold as he finished.

“It’s so beautiful,” said Buffy, sitting up.  She wondered briefly where her hoodie and shirt had gone — probably the living room and hallway floors.  Spike was artful as a con man when it came to getting her clothes off. 

He turned to look at her, his face hard to read in the dim light.  “Meant to get roses too, love, but wasn’t sure how long I had after sunset.”

“Come here,” said Buffy, reaching for him. “There’s something I need to say.”

“Do you now,” said Spike, and was back on the bed in a blink.  She found herself on her back again, his thighs pressing hers upward so her skirt crumpled around her waist.  He leaned forward and kissed her neck with the slightest sucking, so her Slayer senses soared off the charts, her thighs clutching him.  He began to move down her, and she loved it when he did — well, whatever he did down there, sometimes she could tell and sometimes she just got carried away on the richness of sensation, the rising tide inside her. 

But it wasn’t what she wanted now.  “No,” she said dreamily to the candlelit ceiling. “Come up here.”

He propped himself up and looked at her, his eyes dark and strangely still with his not breathing.  “Oh?”

“I want to look you in the eyes as I come,” she said, and his head tilted sideways.  He surged up to kiss her then, tender and light, and she reached down for his cock. The silky skin and the lovely strong arc of him, against the harsh edge of the open fly — the jeans really had to go. “Pants now,” she said, her tongue thick with need.  “Off.”

“Delighted,” said Spike, in a voice like dark honey.

Just watching him squat to unlace his boots warmed her.  She wriggled out of her skirt and leaned back on the pillows, arranging herself, marveling at how unembarrassed she was now to be naked to his gaze.  She could feel the blood pulsing in her folds, waiting for his flesh; she felt herself with one hand, catching and holding his gaze as she slipped her fingers around, strumming herself, feeling the beginning of a tightening inside.  He’d gotten one boot off and seemed to be having some trouble with the second one, and the sweetness of that was warming too; she strummed herself a little harder and didn’t stop herself from moaning, because it felt so good and it was about to feel so much better.  She let her eyes close, touching herself.

She heard a thump and the tearing of fabric, and then with a growl he was with her, his whole weight on her, and she opened her eyes and gasped as he found his way into her — not fast and not slow; purposeful and deep.  For a moment they both were still, pulsing together.  She used her fingers to separate her curls around her clit, and touched herself with one hand, watched his lips quirk and open as she began to move around him, in time with the pulses and her fingers.

 

***

 

When Buffy woke, there was sunlight behind the blinds. Her head was nestled against Spike’s torso, one of his hands tangled in her hair.  She followed the curve of his pelvic bone with her fingers, the shape as sweet and profound as a poem.  She moved to kiss the hollow just inside that curve, and he traced the back of her skull with his hand. 

She still hadn’t told him all she needed to tell him. But now, with all the background noise of her mind stilled, all her bodily tensions banished, she knew exactly how. She had the perfect words.

She scooted up until her head shared his pillow, and she could look directly into his face.  The crinkles at the edges of his blue, blue eyes deepened. She opened her mouth to say _My beloved_ … but nothing came out.

She coughed a little, and tried again. 

She sat up. 

Spike’s smile was slipping as he realized something was wrong.

His lips, his tongue were moving.  He put a hand to his throat. 

Neither of them could make a sound.


	9. I Had No Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to OffYourBird for the alpha, and then the beta. 
> 
> I know not everyone loves long chapters, but it all takes place in such a short time frame I think it makes sense...

_your never going to live this down,_  scrawled Xander across a legal pad, and rotated it to face Spike.

Buffy tapped her fingers on the table impatiently and gave Xander a hard look.

_WHAT_ _tell me you still think he was a tough guy when he was alive_

Spike glared, then snatched the pad away. _At least my writing is_ _readable_ , _you half-wit ninny_. _And I can spell._

_readable and **FANCY**ASS**_

Buffy grabbed the pad from Xander, tore off the top sheet, crumpled it, and tossed it to the corner, where it landed neatly in the growing pile of crumpled sheets. _ENOUGH,_ she wrote. _We need to figure out what’s happening._

Anya wrote for a moment in her journal, then turned it outward. _New things are becoming old things and none of us can talk_.Everyone looked at her.Her eyebrows rose. _Plus soldiers,_  she amended.

Willow held up her own pad.  _But_ _why_ _?_

_We don’t know that._

Willow scoffed.

Xander wrote:  _retorical_

Spike rose, leaned across the table, and added a _^h_ below the  _r_  and the  _e_ , with a noticeable flourish.

Buffy thumped the table sharply to get everybody’s attention. _When I found Riley and Graham, they were chasing down a vampire with a_

Buffy paused, then drew a fanged figure that bulged out in the center, around a dark round space.

 _Vamp with a pot belly?_  wrote Spike.

She added flames around the dark circle. _More like a vampire with a pot-bellied stove?_ she wrote. _And mechanical legs._ She looked up to see them looking at her pad with various degrees of incomprehension. 

She grabbed Xander’s sleeve and pulled him to the kitchen, the others trailing after them.The neat galley kitchen had changed:the cream-colored stove was now a cast-iron hulk.By contrast, the space the refrigerator had occupied was empty except for a small wooden cabinet with multiple doors. 

Anya darted forward to investigate, pulling doors and drawers open with interest.Buffy pointed from the bulging door at the front of the stove to her own abdomen and held up her pad.

Spike looked at the drawing with trepidation as he gingerly traced the bump on the back of his head.Buffy reached up and put her hand over his.They shared a long look.

Xander had been staring at the stove with his mouth slightly open.He turned to Buffy and wrote,  _if the stove in your vamp used 2B something modern — what the hell was it before it was a stove???_

Buffy made an exasperated face and wrote at length, _Look. Our_ _best_   _only_ _lead is that those soldier guys know more than we do about what’s happening. We need to know what they’re doing, what they put into Spike, what they know about the voices.But with no way to stay in touch, and no real idea what’s going on, I don’t want any of you going anywhere alone, okay?_

 _I’ll keep researching transformations, and voice loss,_  wrote Willow.She gave them all a plaintive look. _I miss the internet._

 _Good_ , wrote Buffy. _I don’t want Spike to be here alone either._

At that, Spike narrowed his eyes and pointed at her.

_You know I have to be out there._

_Alone?_

Buffy shrugged and nodded.Spike scowled and abruptly left the kitchen.

Anya wrote,  _X and I will go for wood, ice, food._

Buffy tilted her head.

 _I don’t know where to get coal.But we can make do with wood for the stove,_  wrote Anya _._

Buffy tapped the word _ice._

Anya pulled open the top compartment on the wooden cabinet, then scribbled quickly. _Icebox._

Buffy’s eyebrows rose, and she gave a thumbs up. 

Spike reentered the kitchen with Buffy’s backpack and thrust it at her.When she reached to take it from him, puzzled, her hand dipped under unexpected weight.He unzipped it to show her:he’d nestled a heavy double-bladed battle axe between two binders in the bottom, so the handle stuck directly up.He hung it on his own shoulder and demonstrated casually reaching back and swinging it into action without even taking it out of the bag.

A smile bloomed across Buffy’s face.She stepped to him and drew him into a kiss.The backpack-axe dropped to the floor as he pulled her in tighter. 

Willow averted her gaze with a pinched expression.Xander pulled on Anya’s arm to get her to look away.

When the kiss finally ended, Buffy reached for her pad. _Everyone meet back here when we’re done?_

Anya nodded brightly. 

 

***

 

It seemed odd how out-and-about Forrest was, strolling out of the coffee shop like it was no big.But that was just because Buffy was used to monsters of the demony kind, who generally kept to the shadows.With his hoodie up and his hand in his pocket, Forrest could pass as a perfectly normal college kid.She’d followed him all the way across campus and no one had done a double take — of course, everyone in Sunnydale was preoccupied with the sudden loss of their voices, but still.She waited a few minutes after he’d entered Lowell House before gingerly pushing open the door herself.

The previous day, Buffy had noticed the frat house seemed kind of vacant — but tracking Forrest through it now, it felt positively haunted.There were no habitation sounds of any kind, not even white noise from electronics.She’d never realized how loud things like refrigerators and speakers could be.She could hear every rustle of Forrest’s clothing as he tromped up the stairs. It was reassuring:if he wasn’t making any effort to be quiet, in this quietest of environments, he probably didn’t know he was being followed. 

She slid her backpack off her back and gripped the axe handle through the fabric, pleased by its solid heft.Once Forrest’s footsteps had become distant, she headed silently up the stairs and peered around the corner at the top. 

The hallway was dim, with nothing but indirect light.Forrest had paused before a large mirror. She couldn’t quite see what he was doing.He shifted a few inches one way and fiddled with something on the mirror.Then he shifted the other way, facing the mirror squarely again, before exhaling with a puff and moving further down the hall.

Buffy shifted forward to see better as he stopped before a blank white wall and put his hands against it.He began kicking at the wall.There was a responding snick as a portion of the wall swung slightly outward.Under cover of his noises, she eased into the hallway.Forrest scrabbled for the revealed edge of wall for a moment with his porcelain hand, then gave up and reached for it with his human one.He was just prying it open when Buffy brought down the flat of her axe on the back of his head.He slumped to the floor and sprawled sideways.

Buffy had to drag him out of the way to swing the concealed door all the way open.Just inside was the top of what looked to be a very long industrial staircase down into darkness.She could hear distant noise —metallic sounds and a slow-rising whistle; it sounded like there was something busy going on, but a long way away.A defunct EXIT sign hung high on the wall.Below it was a jumble of tiki torches and a couple contraptions that looked like large diaper pins.Buffy was turning one over in her hands when a flash of memory came back to her:it was a flint scratch lighter, like the one they’d taken on a camping trip when she was a little girl.

She picked up a torch and examined it.It had a Wal-Mart price sticker. It felt distinctly festive for descending into a potentially dangerous unknown facility, with its brightly colored wicker, but no one had thought to provide appropriately dungeony torches.She caught sight of Forrest again in the light of the hall and moved back to his side.The pulse in his neck was strong, but he showed no hint of consciousness.The metal on his face was melded to his skull, as far as she could tell — part of him now.The ceramic hand was even stranger up close, with its perfectly tapered fingers and a tiny blue maker’s mark beneath the glaze at the wrist.

She scooted his sleeve up his arm.His wrist was mechanical, with toothed wheels that allowed it to bend with a soft ratcheting noise, but she didn’t see any way for him to control that movement.Also, were those screw threads?She twisted, and the hand began to rotate.The thought of  _disassembling_ someone she knew made her slightly queasy, but she unscrewed it, then worked Forrest’s arms one-by-one out of his big hoodie.She pulled it on over her own, and positioned her backpack on her back so she could easily reach the axe handle.She checked herself in the mirror; hood pulled far forward, with Forrest’s hand protruding from her left sleeve, she wouldn’t pass even the slightest direct inspection — her stature alone was a giveaway.But as a background figure, maybe she wouldn’t attract too much attention. 

She dragged Forrest into the closest room and shut the door.Then she returned to the stair and lit the torch.She held it out over the stairway railing and leaned out, looking down.She could count at least six flights of stairs in the dim light, with glints suggesting more beyond. Deeper down, there was a faint rectangle of light.Impressive, given that they were on only the second story of Lowell House. 

She began her descent. 

 

***

 

Tara walked slowly down the Commons.So much felt so normal:it was a very average, sunny Southern California day.The tree leaves rustled and sighed in the occasional breeze.The grass struggled to grow thick and green despite the misfortune of being planted on a campus.Sparrows pecked at a bread crust on the sidewalk, making it dance.

But that was where normal ended.There was no human hubbub — Tara was surprised at how different that made the Commons.She could hear the bickering of the sparrows that she could see, but also the songs of hidden vireos and finches.She could track bumblebees by their dense buzzing in the nearby flowerbed.

Of the cars parked on the side streets, only a few beaters remained one-hundred-percent modern car.A fancy SUV listed sideways; its rear tires had been replaced with incongruous wooden wheels bound by metal, and they and the wooden axle had collapsed under the weight of the carriage.One pristine black coach, right out of the Hound of the Baskervilles, sat alone in the Dean’s parking spot.Apparently, under the rules of this enchantment, horsepower didn’t transform into actual horses.Which was probably just as well.If it had been a literal substitution, each car owner would suddenly have dozens of animals — maybe hundreds? Tara didn’t know how the magnitude of horsepower worked in a car.She quirked a smile as she envisioned a campus of restless and curious herds, nibbling at the ornamental shrubs … clomping awkwardly into classrooms …

A girl was bawling, in disturbing silence, alone on a bus stop bench.Tara had been startled to wake up silenced, but having a magical education put it in a context. She hadn’t realized until she’d left her dorm room how traumatic it might be for people who found it inexplicable.

A middle-aged man with glasses was selling small chalkboards, the chalk attached by string.After a moment’s hesitation, Tara bought one.If she managed to locate Willow, she might need to do more than wave a spell book at her.

The quiet was sliced by a shriek, and Tara spun sideways in alarm before she located the source. A young boy had a whistle clamped in his mouth and a stack of flyers under one arm; with his other hand, he waved one above his head and whistled again.She wondered where, exactly, he’d found a little engineer hat.He looked for all the world like he’d sprung out of Dickens, except his face was too clean.She hung her chalkboard around her neck and took the flyer from his outstretched hand. 

Across the top of the page, the sheet blared in arching type  _The Sunnydale Illustrated News_.The ink, she realized, was coming off on her fingers.A large, crude illustration of people gathered below the new clock tower, grasping their throats dramatically, took up most of the page.Tara realized with horror that the badly drawn shape in the foreground was meant to be the body of a man, his chest ripped open, eyes bulging.

 

**A HUSH FALLS OER S’DALE**

**AS A MONSTER STEALS THE**

**HEARTS OF OUR YOUNG MEN**

_By Mister Joe Dizney_

**What new curse is afoot in Sunnydale?With horror we relate the progress of evil among us.Amid the unnatural speechlessness of our small city, two young men lost their hearts last night — and not in a romantic way!Their bodies were found lifeless in their abodes, their hearts removed.**

**A secret source tells us these gruesome surgeries were performed while they yet lived!!!**

**Where is the Mayor?Where are the police and their detectives?All are silent, their doors locked.**

**But the Illustrated News shall speak, in what manner it can, for us all!Rally tonight at the Mayor’s Mansion!Bring signs, bring whistles, bring drums!Bang on a can!Our elected officials must find these foul perpetrators and bring them to justice!**

 

Tara folded the page, careful not to get more ink on her hands, and slid it in her bag.

As though in response to her earlier thoughts, she became aware of the unfamiliar thud of hoof beats.She turned to scan the Commons. She couldn’t help but smile at the unlikely sight — a red-brown horse with a white blaze, coursing directly down the greenway, all smooth muscle and grace.As it came closer, she could see flecks of foam on its face, some kind of broken wooden spar bouncing along behind it.People bolted out of its way.She calmed her mind and raised a hand to soothe — even in the midst of its frenzy, for just a moment she was able to meet that wild eye.The moment hung suspended like glass, as she felt the strong heartbeat, the strength and the panic, the give of the moist soil under hooves.She had opened her mouth before she realized she couldn’t incant. 

She was bowled over to the ground, jarred out of the horse’s path and mind.The man with the chalkboards had barreled into her; his boards clattered to the sidewalk around them as the horse galloped past, close enough that Tara felt the air moving from its passage.It began to slow, its gait shifting to a canter as it left the Commons.

Tara picked herself up, gathering her bag and her spell book.She touched her hand to her forehead in thanks to the man, who nodded awkwardly as he clambered up from the ground. 

The horse had headed in the direction of Stevenson.Tara had a notion Willow was either there or in Adams.She decided to let the horse choose her path.

 

***

 

Buffy went round and down and round again, trying to quiet her steps on the metal stairs. _I’m marrying Spike, Spike, Spike._  She hated to admit it, but incessant jingle in her head was getting irritating.She couldn’t wait to be married to Spike — but he would be the first one to tell her she needed to focus as she descended into what was sounding increasingly like a very large and busy facility.The stairwell smelled of antiseptic and sweat, smoke and blood and something sour, like spoiled milk.Every now and then, there was an indistinct but loud noise, like dull thunder.Her Slayer senses were going haywire. 

Spike would probably also tell her all the things she already knew:that she was taking too large a risk, that no one knew where she was, that Forrest could wake up, and that any paramilitary organization with secret underground facilities for demon surgery was unlikely to have an open-door policy for visitors. Although her beloved wouldn’t word any of it so politely.

She imagined for a moment that instead of him being home with some unknown thing pushing out through his skull, he was here beside her, a sleek and dangerous predator who would always have her back.She imagined that Giles had never left — that when they’d woken without voices this morning he’d squinted, scanned his shelves thoughtfully, and pulled out the exact book that made sense of what was happening.

She shook the daydreams off.She was the Slayer, and she’d been heading into dark places alone for a long time. 

Though usually not holding a prosthetic hand. 

The dark stairwell was less dark now; she had stopped counting flights somewhere in the teens.As she rounded another landing she could see that, at the next one, there were abandoned torches leaning up in the corner, presumably left behind for the next person headed up.The air was thicker, smokier, somehow a little bit oily.A few stairs past the landing, the side wall vanished and light washed over the metal treads. 

When she reached the torches, Buffy snuffed out hers with its cap and left it beside them.She took a few cautious steps down and crouched low to peer out through the triangle between the stairs and the ceiling.

The room was vast and smoky, its darkness dwarfing the pockets that were illuminated. There was something both familiar and bizarre about seeing Professor Walsh presiding over the scene.She stood at a podium to Buffy’s left, scribbling furiously, her hair standing in disorderly tufts.If Buffy continued down the stairs, they would turn and lead her to the podium as well.Men held torches to either side of Walsh.Even at this distance, Buffy was reasonably certain she recognized some of them as Lowell students.One supported his torch with an arm that glinted silver in the light, his hand replaced with a rough hook; a cruel curved spike jutted out at the elbow.Further away stood a small man in white scrubs, the normality of the stethoscope looping his neck laughable in this setting.

Buffy scanned the rest of the room; she guessed there were fifty soldiers positioned around the edges, all armed with various clubs and blades, all facing away from Walsh and off to the right.A few had alterations that were visible to her even in the low light.She wondered what had happened, at this point, to the demons who had been held in the containment rooms like Spike.

Her attention flicked back to Walsh, who was raising her arm imperiously.A soldier, still in khaki from his shoulders down to his waist, scuttled on multiple sets of pincer legs to take something from her, then back to feed it into a small, rickety machine.It was the audience’s reaction, the gung-ho stamping in approval, that alerted Buffy to the fact that there was a projection beyond her limited field of vision.

To move to where she could see it would be to expose herself.But at least the stairway was relatively dark.

Buffy pulled her hood far forward, made sure the porcelain hand was obvious.She puffed herself up and tried to move with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged.Five steps down and she could see the sentences projected on the wall. 

She realized she’d arrived well into the … the  _speech_ , she supposed, in a manner of non-speaking.The presentation.The projected words were handwritten in sloppy block letters, and warped by the contraption they were using as a projector; towards the edges the sentences expanded wildly outward.The light casting them was flickery and inconsistent, illuminating eddies of smoke in the air on its way to the screen.It was clear that none of that mattered to the rapt crowd. 

_•STRs occur first in the most advanced applications_

The stomping was a sort of smattering of applause, Buffy supposed.She watched as Walsh held out another sheet to the crab-man; she saw the doctor flinch as one of the pincer legs touched him in passing.That was interesting.

_•With the loss of Team 6 we will no longer pursue the rogue squadron_

There was restless movement among the assembly … the assembly of assembled.Buffy was feeling almost giddy trying to parse what she was seeing.She couldn’t imagine trying to describe it when she got out.If she got out.Walsh lifted another sheet for the crab boy without stopping her mad scribbling.

_•If they follow the progress of our current guests, they will undergo STR shortly_

Riley and Graham, out in the forest looking stressed beyond belief — were they  _rogues_  about to  _undergo STR_?Because if this was what they had been a part of — well.Spike had been here, and he was undergoing something, and she didn’t like the prospect of what it might do to him one bit.

_•They will join us or expire on their own_

Buffy had the definite notion that the stomping was now the equivalent of a cheer. She wondered if she would get to see a mute-monster version of the Wave.She squinted at the crowd; the volume seemed far too loud for fifty men.That was when she realized that what she’d taken to be empty space in the center of the dark smoky room was a pit, deep and unlit, and full of movement.She could only make out the details where they came close to a torch-bearing soldier at the edge, but these creatures — they were no longer the kind of monsters she knew.There was a scaled green demon whose shoulder glinted with moving cog work; a fyarl that looked to have become part steamroller, the heavy cylinder rolling before it dark with even darker stains.As she watched, it threw back its head and howled soundlessly.She saw the glint of leg irons and chains.

The backpack, forgotten, slipped from her shoulder.She jerked to catch it with her elbow and watched, with the slow clarity of a dream, as one edge of the axe slid right through the fabric.For a moment, she thought it would slice clean through and the whole axe would slide free and fall down the stairs in a huge clatter, and the fifty men and unknown number of demons would turn as one to look at her — but it didn’t; its weight settled back to the center and it cut no further.Buffy began to let out her breath with relief.So much relief that her hand loosened, and Forrest’s prosthetic hand slipped out of hers.It hit the metal stair and bounced.

Buffy swung the backpack round so she was holding the axe handle through the bag, falling into a defensive crouch as raised her head to face — no one.The crowd was stamping frantically at some new insane bullet point, arms and claws in the air in something close to reverence. The smoke was thick. With cautious relief, she turned her attention back to the stage.

Someone had noticed.The doctor was staring at her with such intensity she was shocked the entire room of semi-mechanicals didn’t feel it and turn to see what he was looking at.As she watched, he blinked at her — and blinked again.It took her a moment to realize he was blinking the same rhythm at her, over and over, the same pattern. 

She wasn’t the right kind of geek to know Morse code, but she was willing to bet she was on the receiving end of an SOS.

She slowly straightened.She held the doctor’s eyes and nodded.His face crumpled, his eyes shutting for a moment.She pulled her hood up again.She stepped backwards, slowly, slowly, one step at a time, making certain of her footing, up the stairs, until she was out of sight. 

Her hands were shaking so hard that it took her three tries to light the party torch.She took the stairs at a run.

 

***

 

Tara stared at door 214 for a moment, gathering her courage, before she raised her hand to knock.At the first rap of her knuckles, the door moved inward — it hadn’t quite latched.She tucked her book under her arm to hold the doorknob with one hand while she knocked more firmly with the other. 

There was no sound from inside.When she released the knob, the door eased open with a quiet creak until it stood wide.

The faint residue of power in the room was as inviting as the smell of ozone after a thunderstorm.She could tell which side of the room belonged to Willow, from the warm, nearly clashing colors of the bedclothes and the drying bunches of yarrow and mugwort hanging over the desk.Books were stacked to either side of the computer, spell books mixed in with standard freshman texts.Light skipped across their spines in curving bands, refracted through an abandoned water glass. Notebooks sprouted tufts of multicolored sticky notes like punk-kid hair.

A map of Sunnydale lay open across Willow’s keyboard.Tara was frowning down at it, twirling a piece of hair around her fingers, before she realized she’d walked all the way into the room without a conscious thought. 

She looked back at the door.She shouldn’t have just come inside uninvited.But something about the room made her suspect no one had been here for hours, maybe days; the air was stale.If she waited here for Willow, she might wait a long time. 

She looked back down at the map.This was important.The purpose wasn’t selfish; it might help a lot of people.And she could do it very simply. 

Tara held her hand flat at the level of her heart.A droplet rose from the water glass, and hovered.She curled her hand closed and gently opened her fingers wide.The droplet dissolved outward into a fine mist over the map.For an instant it caught the light in a single location, and then it was gone. 

Willow was in an apartment complex just past the town square.A very walkable distance away.Tara could be off campus, through the park, and into the center of town before dark if she hurried.It would probably mean knocking on strangers’ doors when everyone was already in crisis … and chalking notes until she found Willow.She gripped her spell book and took a deep, steadying breath. 

 

Almost all the campus stores were closed, but the Grotto was selling “cowboy coffee” — a little sedimenty, but it had a good flavor.Tara tried to force the lid on better as she made her way off campus.These lids were infuriating:they fit so tightly that, if they weren’t perfectly seated, they would slowly squeeze themselves up off the rim.The baristas could get them on, but woe unto the girl who needed to add sugar. 

She looked around for a flat surface to set it on — the bench would do.Now if she could press evenly …she really wasn’t going to be sorry at all when all the plastic lids in the world got around to reverting into … what  _would_  happen to a thing that hadn’t replaced an older thing?The coffee dripped down the side of the cup and onto the bench as the lid popped back off.

She was searching her bag for napkins or tissues when she noticed something white flapping in her peripheral vision.It was a man rambling towards her.The loping, ungainly form — she would have thought it was performance art, some kind of modern in situ dance piece about asylums or mental health … but he was coming at her, and there came another guy behind him with the same kind of movement.Their faces were bandaged.

Tara gathered up her bag and book and began to back away.As he came closer she could see that his eyes were vacant, rolling, his head bobbing as though he were blind — but neither that nor the flapping straightjacket arms were the most terrifying thing about him. 

He had no aura.He had almost reached her, and he had no aura at all.

Tara turned and began to run.

 

***

 

It was surreal to burst out the top of the stairs of Maggie Walsh’s underground retro-mechanical hell and find it still light out.The grass was still green, the sky darkening but still blue.People were still — well, they were still walking around traumatized by having been struck dumb.But compared to what was beneath their feet, it all felt intensely normal.

She made her way across the campus.It wasn’t clear exactly what she’d learned in her reckless trip.Walsh was crazy and building an army of semi-mechanical soldiers with semi-mechanical … slave monsters …She supposed she had learned that.And however reluctant that doctor might be, however trapped, it was clear the experiments on demons were still underway.But it didn’t seem to her that Walsh was causing the technological reversions; more like she was using them, divining how they worked from what she observed.And if Walsh herself couldn’t speak, she probably hadn’t caused the voice loss, either.

Buffy paused a moment to take in the fact that a horse was eating the bark off a tree just outside the Dean’s office window.No one else seemed to notice it — but then again, there were the cars to look at, all retro’ing back to wagons and carriages, and all the closed down shops. And an old-fashioned papergirl handing out papers eagerly; Buffy took one and then fumbled in her pockets for change.

As she walked towards home, she stared, disturbed, at the illustration.She supposed it was a good thing?Not the removal of living hearts, of course, that was Bad with a capital B.But the idea that there was a journalist actually warning people about what went on in Sunnydale … she wasn’t sure why she found it vaguely disquieting. 

Then again, the last time someone had sounded the alarm about what went on in Sunnydale, the townspeople had tried to burn her and Willow at the stake.She deposited the paper in a trashcan and began trying to get the ink off her hands using Forrest’s sweatshirt. 

She was nearly to the town square when the sound of feet pounding on the cement made her raise her head.Buffy had never been so pleased to see non-mechanical monsters chasing a woman in her life.So normal.Despite having taken a thousand-odd stairs at a run, she took off with a burst of energy.

She overshot the closest figure by a couple yards, dropped to the ground, and took him out with a sweep of her leg.He went tumbling, his loose white sleeves a jumble, and she was off after the second one, who had nearly caught up to his intended victim.She landed a flying kick in his upper back, downing him.

But the other one was back and it was all blows, the reassuring and solid connections of a physical fight — about a billion more times satisfying than her earlier retreat.She couldn’t tell what these monsters were.Not human, she didn’t think, but maybe they had been once; their gaping mouths under their bandages looked human.She caught a glimpse of the woman they’d been after, scrambling away, her brown hair swinging across her wide eyes as she looked back over her shoulder.

Buffy sent one of the white-shirts tumbling again — hadn’t she already kicked him in the chest hard enough to break a rib?They weren’t that skilled, but they bounced back up like weebles, very spry monster weebles.Even as she thought it, she was grabbed from behind, and felt the shape of the axe pressing into her back. 

Right.She could flip him, but she’d rather not get sliced by her own weapon.She had started to maneuver around in his grip when she became aware of three suited figures, floating easily off the ground before her.They nodded gracefully out of cadaverous heads, all courteous metal smiles and hand-wringing as they floated closer.Buffy flung herself sideways, ignoring the slicing pain in her shoulder blade — and when she was clear of the weeble guy, she freed the axe in a single fluid movement that left the sliced backpack in ribbons down her back. 

The weebles charged her anyway, arms grasping and flailing — but they were no match for her armed.Hit with an axe, they crumpled to the ground in short order, the deflation of their straightjackets making them look as though she’d punctured inflatable attackers. 

By the time she looked around,the floating gentlemen were gone. 

Buffy scanned the nearby buildings.A few windows emitted the soft glow of candlelight inside; one second-story window hosted a whole candelabra.She saw no indication of which way they might have gone. 

She walked on towards the main square, wary and sharp-eyed.Anya had been right about the gas street lamps — not nearly as bright as their electric predecessors, but they were flattering.The whole downtown looked particularly quaint and charming. 

She reached the wedding shop window and paused.The dim light made the ecstatic mannequin seem more human, her seamed wrists and fake plastic ring less obvious.Despite the circumstances, Buffy felt a surge of affection for the eternal bride-to-be, forced to wait far longer than a year for wedded bliss.She absently followed the line of the figure’s blind eyes up to the clock tower.

There was a surprising amount of light and movement going on in the clock tower — and it wasn’t the movement of the bronze lady with the headdress doing her strange dance with Death.Something white fluttered; something glided, shadows backed by flickering light. There was the sound of blows, of something shattering.Buffy crossed the street at a jog and pushed open the door at the base of the tower.

It swung open readily, to reveal … stairs, of course.Lots more stairs.Buffy groaned silently, muscles protesting, as she headed up. 

She emerged into the belfry, partially concealed from view by the gears and weights of the new Sunnydale clock. The life-size bronze automatons loomed over her head, their raised, circular track just at eye level.She took stock of the fight before her as she circled to the left.Two more of the weirdly tireless weebles, in more loosened straightjackets, were gaining ground against a commando.He swung a section of pipe at one, half tripping over one of the discarded pieces of lumber that were strewn across the floor.Beyond them were the floating, sepulchral gentlemen she’d seen earlier, nodding serenely as queens to their footmen. 

Buffy edged sideways around a small table lit by torches — and  _ugh_.Hearts.Even in jars, she was pretty sure those were the human hearts, as well as a little box that somehow twinged a memory, a distorted image like a dream. 

The footmen were hemming the soldier in tighter. Though his movements were becoming sloppy and his face was grimmer than she’d ever seen it, she now recognized Riley.She hesitated just a moment — but whatever he’d been a part of, he was on the right side right now.Buffy flung herself into the action.

One of the footmen was down in a second, staring at his stump of a leg.It was somehow extra ghastly that he did not bleed and was struggling to get up again, his head lolling as though having a head was almost unnecessary.She turned to face number two.Behind him, the gentlemen mimed woe and alarm. 

The second footman was wiley and strong — he managed to send her flying when he caught her in the stomach with a loose beam, a blow that might have killed her had she been merely human.As she hit the heavy chains of the clock machinery, she saw Riley’s face as he mouthed her name in a panic — and then he was being dragged backward, white sleeves holding back his arms.She struggled to right herself; some part of the machinery had caught in the remains of her backpack, pulling it up too tight to shrug off.

There was a hollow-sounding clack, followed by the grinding of the clock machinery engaging.The massive clock weights began to move, and she felt the chains behind her moving her with them.She scrabbled instinctively for a moment as she was pulled up to her tiptoes.Above her, she could see the elbow of the bronze woman in the headdress as she began to move into place, raising the gong.

The legless weeble was still trying to stand up, but reinforcements had arrived; there were now four footmen.She saw that they were pulling Riley down onto a pile of wood in the corner, that the grinning gentlemen were gathering around.

Buffy was jerked higher, and a thunderous chime rang out from the clock. 

One of the gentlemen raised something small and gleaming in the torchlight.

Buffy remembered she had an axe, a very sharp axe; the blood dripping down her back was proof enough of that. She slid the point of one blade awkwardly along the shoulder of the sweatshirt and it parted, leaving her hopping on one foot as her other shoulder was dragged upward and the clock chimed again.And then she had wriggled free, catching just a glimpse of the remains as they were pulled up and away to be smashed between giant gears.

She spun to survey the room.In the moment she’d been distracted, something had changed: the gentlemen for the first time appeared something other than gracious and gleeful.Their faces were slack as they backed away from Riley, the footmen scurrying away as well, stampeding towards the stairs as though she weren’t even there.The table toppled, a torch hitting the wooden floor, the jars of hearts smashing alongside it.As the box hit the floorboards, its lid fell open, phantasmagoric mists flooding out from it.

The gentlemen bobbed after their lackeys, disorganized, grimacing as they careened into each other in their haste to leave the belfry.She saw one of them give a last, ghastly look over his shoulder, and then they were out of sight, floating down the tower.

“That—” Buffy stopped, startled by an actual word coming out of her mouth.“That was really strange,” she said slowly.Her tongue felt thick and clumsy. “But I can talk!”She retrieved a torch from the floor, watched it resume a steady flame.

“Help … help me,” croaked Riley behind her. 

She turned.He was splayed across a pile of wooden beams in the corner.She picked her way to him, avoiding the broken glass and bloody bits splashed across the floor. 

“What did they do?”

“Help me,” he said again, his voice rising.His eyes were wild, but he lay very still.His shirt had been cut apart, and there was a long slice through his flesh right above where his heart should be. 

She squatted beside him and held up the torch.As the light illuminated Riley, she understood why the gentlemen had fled their intended victim.Forcing its way out of their incision was the thin metal head of a key, the kind with two holes through the handle, like the key to a wind-up toy.Behind it she could see the notched curve of a gear.

“Oh,” she said, with horror, thinking of the thin curved edge under the surface of the skin on the back of Spike’s head.“Oh, no.  _Spike_.”

“What?” said Riley.

“Uh,” said Buffy — right, Riley.She took a deep breath and met his eyes.“We’re going to take care of this.I’m going to get you somewhere safe, and then we take care of this.”

“You don’t understand,” said Riley weakly.

“That you had some implanted technology that has taken a trip back through time?Got the memo,” said Buffy.She slipped her arm behind his shoulders and helped him sit up.“I paid a visit to Dr. Walsh’s underground hellhole today.You’re lucky you’re still mostly human.”

“Don’t feel so lucky,” Riley whispered.His head lolled onto her shoulder as he blacked out.

 

***

 

“You saying my head’s turning clockwork?” said Spike.He struggled to sit up, but Buffy pushed him, slowly but with Slayer strength, back down. 

“We’re going to fix you,” said Buffy. She leaned over the pillows and kissed him, a demanding kiss, and felt his lips soften.

When she straightened back up, he grumbled, “Gave the wanker the bloody master bedroom, did you?We could put that bed to better use.”

Buffy gave a little laugh.“I like this little bed.It feels like ours.Not that you are in any condition to do anything but  _lie still._ ”

“Dunno why you’re being so good to him.Helped put this thing in my head.Leave him to those bloody goons.”

“He’s not too happy about being an experiment, either,” said Buffy.“He thought he was doing the right thing, joining up with the Initiative.More to the point: he knows all the ways to sneak in.”

At that, Spike did sit up, narrowing his eyes at her.“You are  _not_  going back down there.”

“Yes, I —”

“Let someone else take that maniac out!Over my dusted bones are you putting yourself at risk again.”

Buffy raised her voice. “I’m the Slayer, Spike —”

“That doesn’t mean you have to —”

“I’m the Slayer and my beloved is turning into a, a  _mechanism_.You better believe I’m going to fix  _this_.”

There was a charged silence as they stared at each other.

Then Spike spoke, his voice half breaking.“Love, if you hadn’t come back — I’d never even know what had  _happened_  to you.Couldn’t bear it.”

“I know,” said Buffy in a small voice. “I’m going to be more careful.”She sat on the bed again, her hip against his thighs. 

He stared at her.“Now see here, we’ll use bombs or something, there’s not —”

She put a finger to his lips.“Not alone.I won’t go back in alone, and I won’t go without a plan.But we have a doctor to kidnap, and we need to do it fast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when I'm going to write another chapter in which no one can speak? Never! Not ever.


	10. Saved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by OffYourBird, and Brit-polished by -Carrie-Ann-

Kizzy, with her preternatural grace, made standing on the raft look easy.She swayed gently as it rocked and spun, her shape a dark curve against the lightening sky.Giles and Travers had both given up, resigned to sitting in the water that intermittently swept across the surface.The water was cold, but Giles felt even colder when it sluiced away and left his wet clothes exposed to the air.

He reflected on ways it could be worse.The wood they sat on could get pushed sideways and flutter down through the water like a leaf wafting down from a tree.

“I suppose,” said Giles slowly, “you should head down soon, Kizzy?” He was surprised at his own reluctance to say goodbye to the vampire.His and Travers’ fate — hunched, wet, and cold on an unstable piece of debris at an unknown location in the vast ocean — would perhaps be no better than hers in the deep.Nonetheless, the thought of her spending years in the dark depths felt particularly grim.

“There’s still time, surely,” said Travers.“It can’t be later than four.”

Giles looked at him with distaste.“I have no idea what time it is.Neither, I suspect, do you.”

“We have no method of knowing precisely what time it is,” said Travers.

Kizzy had turned to watch them with a faint smile.

A thought struck Giles, and he patted his jacket pockets a moment, then drew out the pocket watch.“Remarkable,” he said. “I thought it must surely be lost.”He held it to his ear, and his eyebrows rose.He opened the latch.“Four thirty-seven,” he said.“Less than an hour til dawn.”

“Now he knows exactly what time the sun rises,” said Travers to Kizzy.“Like a boy scout.”

“We’re on a tiny raft,” said Giles.“I can hear you.And I’d rather be a boy scout than the bureaucrat who decided to book us on a transatlantic cruise as technology turned backwards.”

“It appeared to be the best available alternative,” protested Travers.“If  _someone_  hadn't wanted to leave immediately, perhaps we would have had more —”

“Now we are trapped on this piece of flotsam with a vampire—”

“I can also hear you, Mr. Giles,” said Kizzy. “Your bicker — is it bicker?It is most amusing.In any case, I know when comes the sun. I know it in my bones. But I do not think it matters.”

“Of course it matters,” said Travis. 

“I think not,” said Kizzy. 

“You can’t just wait for the sun,” said Giles.

“I do not wait for the sun.I think the ship comes first.”

Travers knitted his brows.“But the ship … the ship  _sank_.”

“The new ship.You perhaps cannot see.But surely you hear them,” said Kizzy.She made a flapping motion with both hands.“The sails, they are speaking in the wind?”

Giles began to climb to his feet; the sudden rush of water across the surface of their raft dissuaded him and he sat back down.“There’s a ship?”He reached for the telescope and extended it.

“Oh, thank the gods,” said Travers.“I was imagining our future as some version of the  _Essex,_ but wetter.”

Giles found the shape, closer than he expected, through the lens. “Ah!A sailing ship. What great good fortune.”He handed the eyepiece to Travers.

“I do not think it is,” said Kizzy.“Unless we make it so.”

“But we are saved!” said Giles.

Kizzy laughed.“Perhaps.Perhaps that will not be their first thought.” 

 

***

 

Giles found his sense of size and distance compromised on the ocean; he couldn’t judge whether the approaching ship was large or small until it was nearly upon them.Then it seemed very large indeed as the water it displaced violently rocked their own craft.Not that it mattered anymore if the raft sank — he hoped the miserable thing did, and that he got to watch.

“Ahoy!” cried Travers.

“Hello!” called Giles.

The once-white hull rising up before them was battered and scarred, the sails above them patched; even in the dim light, it was clear that the ship had seen many years of service.It betrayed no signs of an abrupt transformation. Two heads appeared over the railing, looking down at their raft in curiosity; they spoke to each other briefly in a foreign tongue and disappeared again.

“Hullo!” This was from a new head, wearing a white cap with a black rim over his bristling salt-and-pepper hair.He scanned them and removed the pipe from between his teeth.“What a fine vessel!”

“English!You’re English!” cried Travers.“Thank heavens you spotted us.We thought we might drift til we drowned.As you see, our boat sank, leaving us in desperate straights.”

“I do see,” said the Captain with easy geniality, considering the two seated men and Kizzy.“Captain Gill, of  _The Chivalrous_.Whom might I have the pleasure of addressing?”

Travers did his best job of puffing up without actually tipping them all into the sea.“Quentin Travers, of the Watch—”

“And Giles, Rupert Giles,” interrupted Giles.

“I meant the lady,” said the Captain.

Kizzy had been standing very still, gazing up.Now she tilted her head. 

Giles sat up straighter.“This is our companion Kizzy … Kizzy …” He realized he didn’t know how to make a proper introduction.

“I cannot tell you how pleased we are that you’ve found us—” said Travers, his words nearly tripping over themselves.

“Yes,” said the Captain, taking a long draw on his pipe, his eyes still on Kizzy.“Traveling light, aren’t you?”

“We were rather rushed,” said Giles.“The whole sinking ship problem.”

“Nautical instruments,” said Travers, in a less enthused tone.“We have a bag of—”

A rope ladder was flung from the top of the ship, the knots making hollow thumps against the wooden side.Kizzy reached out and caught it on the bounce as Travers scrambled over to her.

“Ladies first,” said the Captain. 

“Of course,” said Travers. 

“And have her bring up the instruments.Just to…”The Captain gestured in the air.“Secure them.”

Kizzy met Giles’ eyes as she held her hand out for the bag.She said quietly, “You have only to, how do you say?Stay close.”

“Right,” said Giles slowly.He looked back at the eager men at the top of the ladder. 

Kizzy stepped delicately up to the first rung, then climbed swiftly to the top.She glanced back down at Travers as the ladder was yanked out of his grasp and hoisted in after her.“Stay close,” she repeated. 

She jerked out of view, and there was a chorus of raucous laughter from above.

The captain leaned back for a moment.“I am afraid I miscalculated,” he said jovially.“We have only room for one.Good-bye, and may the winds be with you!”He offered a quick salute, and vanished from view.

 

***

 

The raft rocked on the wake of the ship. 

Travers broke the silence.“Well.”

“I rather suspect that those men do not have her best interests at heart,” said Giles.

“Mmm,” said Travers.“I find I deeply dislike how correct she was.”

“Yes,” said Giles. 

“Or maybe just how very wrong I was,” said Travers.

The raft dipped into a particularly robust swell.

“You had hope,” said Giles.“It’s not wrong to hope, surely?”He gripped the wooden edge to secure himself. 

There were some shouts above them from the ship, and a large sail swung round and filled.The ship began moving more swiftly. 

Gradually, the sky lightened.

“Then again,” reasoned Travers, “they think she’s a young woman.She will have considerable surprise on her side.”

“Quite right,” said Giles, nodding. 

A large swell soaked their clothes once again.

Giles drew up his legs and looked at Travers.“Do you realize we are rooting for a vampire?”

“Well,” said Travers, “she  _is_  very personable.”

“Thoughtful,” said Giles.“To rather uncomfortable effect.”

“Yes,” said Travers.“Also … they  _are_  leaving us to die.”

“Quite,” said Giles.“One might suppose they are not good men.”

They lapsed into silence again.It was just as hard to judge the speed of the ship leaving as it had been coming, with nothing but endless waves and sky to measure against, but its form had become notably smaller as the sun began to reveal itself at the horizon.

A wave sent their raft spinning.

When it slowed, Travers noted, “She didn’t even try to kill us.”

“No, no … Though she did kill Dan.”

Travers sighed.“Yes.She did.Admitted it, as well.”

The sun first became a full red disc, then blazed too bright to look at directly. Its light was reflected across the tops of the swells from the horizon to the raft. 

The ship, now a good distance away, appeared to have stilled.

A faint scream rang out, and both men raised their heads; but there was nothing new to see.

“Rather cheeky of her to tell us to stay close,” said Giles.“We don’t have so much as an oar.”

 

***

 

It was a quarter after three by the pocket watch when the great sails shifted and the ship began to return. Both men scrambled to reassemble themselves, hastily rebuttoning the shirts they had used as makeshift tents against the relentless sun.

 _The Chivalrous_  slowed well in advance of reaching them, so that by the time it drew alongside it barely rocked their raft.The end of the rope ladder hit the water about a foot away, but this time no heads appeared over the railing.

When Giles clambered over the top, he expected — well, he didn’t even know he had formed expectations until he found himself entirely surprised to be faced with two young, grim-faced women. 

“Hello?” said Giles. 

They appraised him.

The shorter one — Giles guessed her to be younger than Buffy, with a thick plait of black hair — murmured something to the other.The older woman, whose paler skin made the bruises on her face look particularly vivid, scowled in reply. 

Of course, now that he thought of it, it couldn’t have been Kizzy who tossed down the ladder; the sun was high and bright despite gauzy clouds.He took a brief look around before turning to help Travers over the side to the deck.There was no one else in sight.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Travers to the pale woman, extending his hand. 

She eyed him warily and took a step backward.The girl with the braid raised her arm and used a curved, machete-like blade to point towards the cabin door at the rear of the deck. “Kiz-zy,” she said.She kept her arm out; it was an order.

“Ah.Yes.Thank you,” said Giles.“Rupert Giles and Quentin Travers.Much obliged.”He tugged Travers along with him towards the bulkhead. They passed buckets and mops. Giles realized that while the front of the deck was freshly swabbed, the rear still sported copious bloodstains.

“Who do you suppose they are?” said Travers, sounding confused.

“They had to have been on the ship,” said Giles.“And from how the crew behaved towards Kizzy, I imagine it was…”He searched for a word.

“A horror,” said Travers heavily. 

“Indeed,” said Giles.

Giles was raising his hand to knock on the bulkhead door when it swung open.Kizzy stayed just inside the shadow of the doorframe, a pleased and feral expression on her face, her wet hair dripping onto the floor boards.

“The girls have found you.They are good girls, yes?”

“Uh,” said Travers, blinking.

“Come in, come in.I wish to shut the door against the sun.I am washing up.”

They followed her cautiously through the small entrance into what had clearly been the Captain’s cabin, all the shades drawn.The floor had already been cleaned, but there was a vivid red stain across the bed linens. Kizzy stopped in front of a large basin of water.She dipped the ends of her hair in the water, and wrung it out, watching the water critically.Then she did it again.

“The girls do not wish to come back to this room.But we will be thankful for their help, I think, in steering such a big ship.They know something of the sails from their time here.”

“And the, ahem … the crew?” asked Travers.

“There are only Emilia and Sara now,” said Kizzy lightly.“They were very … capable once they realize they can be free.Not so happy to have more men on board, perhaps?But it will be good for them.”

“Good for them,” repeated Giles.

“To know,” said Kizzy.“To know there are men who do not wish to harm them.And you will not harm them.”She smiled, allowing the slightest emergence of her night face.“You will be kind, with your English, how do you say?”She stood very straight, shoulders back, in what Giles took to be a parody of Travers.

“Reserve,” said Travers, unselfconsciously.

“Ehh,” said Kizzy.She snagged Captain Gill’s hat from the desk, and carefully set it on her head, adjusting it to a rakish angle. 

“Stuffiness,” said Giles.

“Yes yes,” said Kizzy. 

 

***

 

Giles couldn't blame the two women for their reticence or wariness.He certainly was not going to try to chat them up about their experiences aboard Captain Gill’s ship; he could imagine a range of possibilities, all of them shades of traumatic, and none suitable for casual conversation — even if either of the women had seemed inclined to actually speak to him. 

Nonetheless, there was something discomfiting about being continually appraised as a potential threat.He had never realized how much he had come to rely on being perceived as kind and harmless in the years since taking on his Watcher persona. 

Still, time should help.And though Travers was an objectionable companion in a host of ways, Giles doubted he could even conceive of being lecherous.Perhaps they could draw the younger Emilia out of her shell.He suspected the older woman, Sara, would take longer. No doubt they were both quite fragile. 

Sara had pointed them to the fishing gear, then backed away to watch them with a scowl from the steps to the quarterdeck at the rear of the ship, her hand on the handle of what looked like a kitchen knife; young Emilia had kept to her spot on the tiny nest halfway up the mast, until a call from Kizzy had brought her down for a conference at the cabin door.

It had frankly seemed too awkward to do anything but accept the suggestion and fish. And although he should be bone-tired after a interminable night on an unstable raft with a vampire, somehow now, standing on a sturdy deck warmed by the sun, with his fishing line running out into the wake of the ship and the clouds changing shape far out over the waves … the previous night seemed dreamlike, fleeting as a nightmare.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gleeful cry from Travers.“I’ve got one!”His rod bowed deeply and he slid, his salt-ruined shoes entirely without traction, towards the rail.“Ay!”

Giles floundered for a moment over what to do with his own pole before simply dropping it.He grasped Travers’ pole between the other man’s hands, bracing his foot against the deck wall. As the line went slack, Travers regained his balance — and then was nearly jerked off his feet as it zipped tight again.Both of them were pulled from side to side as the invisible fish began to zigzag.

“It must be enormous,” gasped Giles.

With his free hand, Travers began to crank the reel, the pole bending alarmingly.As the fish zigged, he lost hold of the handle, and it spun out wildly before he caught it again.

After the second time they lost control of the reel, he realized that Sara had come down to the main deck and was neatly winding up the last of the line from his abandoned rod.He and Travers both froze as she leaned over and engaged the simple thumb lock on Travers’ reel, then gave them a look that screamed  _you idiots_. 

“Oh,” breathed Travers.“Thank you!”She jerked back, and his face fell.She returned to the stairs and resumed watching them.

It took the men’s combined strength to finally reel in the fish and get it over the railing and onto the deck.Still attached to the line, it wrenched itself into the air over and over, glistening scales over solid muscle. 

“Smaller than I thought,” admitted Giles as its tail slapped the deck; he had been expecting something dolphin-sized. The actual fish was roughly two feet long, with a thin stripe down its hefty mid-section, and a shockingly large eye.

Travers grabbed for the fish; it slipped away and flopped furiously towards Giles, leaving slime on his fingers.“Big enough, surely!”

Giles tried to seize it around the middle, with both hands, and yelped; barbs in the fins had bloodied one of his palms.“Bloody hell —”The fish flapped past him towards the prow.

“Catch it!” cried Travers, dashing past him.“Don’t let it get to the side!”

They both dove after the fish. Giles made another wild grab, and found himself flapped in the face, fishiness oozing across his glasses.Travers fell on his butt, his hands now laced with red.“It has no legs!How can it be  _escaping?_ ”

Emilia sauntered between the two of them, and a moment later the fish’s head fell cleanly away from its body and came to rest in front of Giles.The eye stared at him, flat and glassy.The body gave a few half-hearted, diminishing spasms as Emilia wrenched her machete up out of the deck board. 

She crouched by the fish’s body and turned it longways.She lay open the belly with one sure stroke, then used the rounded tip of her blade to scrape out the guts.Giles had watched Buffy dispatch any number of demon species far more gruesomely, but he felt queasy as Emilia scooped the entrails overboard with her hands.

 

***

 

The layered clouds at the horizon made for a glorious sunset.Some lay like rumpled sheets on a vast bed; others bloomed upward in strange, piled columns of cotton. There were no contrails, no tiny moving specks indicating airplanes.

Kizzy had dragged the Captain’s table out onto the main deck.In her jaunty cap and mysteriously acquired red dress, she had taken on the attitude of the generous hostess of a soiree, lighting torches and directing them to bring up whatever could be found in the galley.

They'd eaten the top half of the fish, down to the skeleton, in no time at all.Even the canned green beans seemed delectable, which was baffling until Giles remembered it had been over twenty-four hours since he and Travers had eaten — and for a large segment of that, they’d been half-drenched in cold seawater.He felt stretched and thin, and suspected he was at grave risk of bursting into inappropriate laughter or, unthinkably, tears.

Sara and Travers were now trying to co-ordinate flipping the whole fish to the expose the flesh on the other side, their forks and knives under the spine.“On three,” said Travers.“One, two, three!”Fish juices spattered across the table.Emilia laughed at them, lolling back in her chair; Kizzy stood and leaned forward to pour more wine. 

Giles studied her.She had not bothered to put food on her own plate; he supposed she felt no need to pretend to be human here, among humans she'd saved.Eventually, though, she too would need nourishment.

She noted his glance as she sat back down.“Eat,” she said.“Tomorrow we will take stock.Tomorrow, we go through the charts, and mark a course, and work the old instruments.But now:we are safe, on a ship that floats well.Eat more.”

“You will need to eat,” said Giles, realizing even as the words left his mouth that he wouldn’t have said them if not for the wine.

“But I have,” said Kizzy.“I have gorged.I will not need more for some time.”

At his flinch, she smiled warmly — he would have called it a kind smile, were it not worn by a vampire that had recently slaughtered a boatload of men.“I do not watch you eat and feel sorry for the fish,” said Kizzy.

 

***

 

Giles woke in precisely the same position he’d fallen asleep.He didn’t know what time it had been when they’d stumbled down the ladder seeking berths, but it was nearly one now.Through the porthole, he could see the sun glistening across the endless, rolling waves. 

Travers’ bed was empty, and neatly made.

He felt energized, vibrant with a strange clarity.His clothes, as he pulled them back on, were clammy and thickened with salt.They would need to find a way to wash things.Surely the ship had a method for collecting rainwater — though fresh water probably had better uses on board.There was so much to learn.

When he emerged on deck he was immediately struck by the sky, bigger than any sky he had ever seen, as though the horizon had somehow been lowered.He did not recall the names for different kinds of clouds he had learned in his youth, but they were all here:clouds like a child’s drawing; clouds stretched into ragged veils; clouds like the pills on an old sweater.The sheer expanse had him turning in place to see.A light breeze now and then tugged the sails into gently sagging shapes. 

His gaze finally landed on Emilia, peeling potatoes on the steps up to the bow.Travers sat just above her, hunched over to watch her hands better.

As Giles approached, she handed the bucket to Travers, who resumed peeling in her place.Emilia rose and went past Giles to the mast, busying herself with a rope; the sail bulged slightly fuller.

“Oh,” said Giles.“Do we know which way we’re headed?”

“Well,” said Travers, “As near as I can make out, they set our course roughly East by the North Star last night.And Kizzy has found the Captain’s journal.We can try out the sextant to get a more precise position.”

Giles leaned against the railing and looked back at the sky.“I know nothing about sextants,” he admitted.

“Nor I,” said Travers.“But I read about them avidly as a boy. Used to tell my father I was going to be a whaler.” He was carefully cutting the eyes out of a small potato.“We need to head in the right direction.There’s not a lot of food on board if we become less fortunate with the fishing.”

“I wonder what Captain Gill intended,” said Giles.

“To plunder other ships,” said Travers, with a trace of anger.His hands stilled, and he looked up at Giles.“Try as I might, I have difficulty feeling badly for his death.”

Giles looked out at the water. “He knowingly left us on a sinking raft. While a vampire we barely know did not.” 

Silence on a ship was never really silent.There was the ongoing sound of waves, the dull thunk of ropes hitting the mast, and now and then the thud of a peeled potato as Travers dropped it into the bucket.For a moment Giles wondered at the absence of gulls; but they were shore birds, and the ship was far from shore.

“So strange,” said Travers, with an odd timbre to his voice.

Giles looked back at him.To his surprise, the older man’s eyes were watering.Fear, perhaps, at being the only unarmed people on the ship, or the very real possibility of never finding their way to land.

“So … marvelous,” said Travers, shifting to look out at the water.

“Ah, yes,” said Giles.And then, “What?”

Travers turned towards him, his face strangely open. “This … series of events.These chances.This … this  _fantastic_   _life_.” 

Giles stared back.A tear had escaped and was running down Travers’ cheek.Giles looked out at the sky, the chaos of clouds and the infinite blue.He could smell both the clean salt of the ocean and the murkier warm wet wood of the ship.He heard the sound, already familiar, of a stronger wind pulling the canvas sails fuller behind him. He felt as though his skin was suddenly loosening, a sensation like a whole body shiver, though the sun was warm.

“ _Yes_ ,” said Giles.

Travers cleared his throat, and shook his head a little, like a dog.He whisked away the tear with the back of his hand. “More fishing today,” he said, in a poor imitation of his usual officiousness. 

“Quite!Quite,” said Giles.He reached to clean his glasses, forgetting that his pocket square had been lost to the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on a writing hiatus while I get chemotherapy. But it's going well. I should get back to this soon!


	11. Superhero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, any one still reading! I hope you can remember the plot! As you may know, I've been dealing with a serious health issue. It is going to continue for a while, so my posting will be sporadic ... and I'm going to try to do NaNo this November, which may well make it more sporadic still. 
> 
> Also a huge thank you to OffYourBird, who beta'd, and went above and beyond any rational beta standard to help me get back into the swing of this story. If you see errors, let me know -- they definitely got inserted after her edit!

Spike lay back in the wicker lounger, in the grassy part of the garden, eyes closed.  His boater had slipped down over his eyes, and his body lay lazy and weighted by the sun. The light, sharp smells of summer grass and trimmed box hedges surrounded him, the darker perfume of roses tugging underneath. He could hear the trickling of the distant fountain, the drone of insects.  And here came the light footfalls of his young sisters, trying to restrain their giggles as they approached.

He waited for them, feigning sleep, and then he felt it: the barest tickle crossing his cheek, then hovering on his lip.  He jerked forward and tried to catch the grass seed-head in his mouth, as his hat tumbled off and the girls erupted into mock-terrified shrieks, dancing away in their green and yellow frocks.  He stood and reached for them, his lovely girls, and they were pulling him around, laughing, joined in a circle, all dappled light and lilting voices — he leaned to kiss their foreheads. Adelia’s head suddenly jerked back, back from where his fang had scratched her, and a drop of blood fell to the collar of her sweet dress.  But it didn’t matter, she was smiling and laughing, laughing as her skin began to crackle and burn, red edges like embers and he was pulling her back but everything was sunlight and danger and flames bloomed like flowers —

“Spike!” It was a woman’s voice, out of time, concerned … not from his human days.  He kept looking at his sisters, reaching for them, now flaming and dying, now laughing and whole, still dancing, still holding his hands.  ”Spike?”

Buffy.  It was Buffy’s voice.  He opened his eyes again, his real eyes this time, and took in her real and lovely face

“Was a dream,” said Spike, almost asking her. He reached out and touched her hair.

“Careful,” said Buffy.  “I would have let you rest, but you were yelling and I was afraid you’d roll over on the key.”

Spike sat up carefully and felt the defined ridge at the back of his head.  “Don’t know it’s a key,” he said uneasily. 

“Yeah, but … it does look just like Riley’s key coming up under there.  What were you dreaming?”

“Don’t remember,” said Spike.  “Everyone here for the meeting?” 

“Yeah. Xander and Anya just got here,” said Buffy.

“You go on.  Need a minute to get my head together.”

“Uh, Buffy,” said Willow from the doorway. “There’s a knock.  A really soft knock.”  She looked puzzled.

“Weird,” said Buffy.

“I know.  No one knocks at Giles’s.” 

“I knew we should have sprung for the door with the peephole … but we’ll probably just have to replace it again.  Wanna grab the axe?”

 

***

  

Tara rapped gently, then backed away from the door. It was a funny door for the building — new and unpainted, with no number or window to match the gentle hospitality of the rest of the complex.  She shifted her weight to her left foot.  She’d done the locator spell hours ago; even if Willow had been here at the time, there was no reason to think she was still here.  Or anyone else.

The door swung open to reveal a slightly familiar blonde girl about her own age, with an expectant air.

“Uh — hi,” said Tara.  “I was looking — I was looking for Willow?  Willow Rosenberg?”

The door opened wider, and there was Willow, all kind eyes and red hair … and hefty medieval weaponry.  “Tara?  It’s Tara, right?  What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” said Tara.  “Nice … nice battle axe?”

“Oh! No, no, this belongs to —” Willow gave a flustered smile as she thrust the axe towards the other woman.  “Buffy, this is Tara, from the Wicca group at school.”

Tara ducked her head again as Buffy spoke. “You weren’t out last night in town, were you?  Like, being … sort of chased by these dudes in white?”

Recognition flashed through Tara, drawing her eyes back up to Buffy’s face.  “That’s _your_ axe.  You were like a _superhero_.”

Willow fell back, her smile fading, as Buffy opened the door wide.  “I think you’d better come in,” said Buffy.

 

 

“I just, you know, yesterday when everyone’s voices were gone, I thought maybe we could …” She took in the group, and the mess of a table they were gathered around, covered with maps and sketches and books — were they using a leather-bound copy of _Treatments More Practical of the Consecration of Circles_ as a paperweight? 

Willow gently took her own book from her and looked at the cover.  “A spell? You wanted to do a spell?  Oh, it’s okay — everyone here is aware of the mystical.”

“I see — I see that,” said Tara, picking up _Treatments_ in wonder and opening it, before realizing they were all waiting for her to continue.  “Oh. And then the voices all came back, but there are still, you know, more and more horses appearing in the quad, and Western Union’s trying to run carrier pigeons …”

“And no pizza delivery,” said Buffy.  “We all feel the pain. But spells aren’t working right now.”

“They aren’t?”

“No,” said Willow.  “You have to be really careful.  Something’s wrong with the whole magic-sphere — it’s dangerous to even try to cast. Hey, how’d you find me, anyway?”

“A locator spell,” whispered Tara.

“But I can’t cast anything,” said Willow.  “It all goes kablooey.  I can’t even _end_ a spell I already cast.”

“There’s no spell,” muttered Buffy.

“It was a really simple spell,” said Tara.

“Well,” said the dark-haired boy.  “You did find Willow.  So it worked.”  There was a false note to his jocular tone, as though he had been keeping it up a long time.

“Maybe — maybe because it was old?  Like the cars.  And after the voices came back, I thought …”  Everyone was staring at her.

“Like what about the cars?” asked the boy.

“You — you know.  The new ones were the first … to get all horse-drawn … with the horses? Only the old ones are still cars. Or partly still cars.”

“Interesting,” said a British voice from the far side of the room.  Tara looked up to see a figure slouched in a doorframe.  There was something off about him, something … she’d noticed something like it before, but had never come across it up close.

The conversation continued around her, voices rising and falling.  Buffy had gone to his side, was leading him to a chair … Tara slowly stepped closer, transfixed as he whispered to Buffy, until she was right next to them. 

“What do you think, Tara?” Willow’s voice made her start. 

“Wait,” she said, without looking away from the man. “What — what are you?”

“Oh, he’s an evil vampire,” said the boy.

“His name is Spike,” said the curly-haired woman beside the boy, elbowing him in the ribs.  “I’m Anya, and this is Xander.”

“You’re a demon? I mean — a vampire is a demon, right?”

“Best kind of demon,” said Spike.

“Pshaw.  Most vampires are _terrible_ demons,” said Anya.  “Ruled by immediate gratification, and fairly short-lived.  I was a much better demon.” 

Tara looked at Anya; she saw nothing but a human girl with a wistful expression.  She looked around the table.  “And all of you are working together … on …”  She considered the maps.

“We’re looking to shut down the source of all this craziness — you know, before we all have to dig our own wells and learn how to cook,” said Buffy.  “But first we need to kidnap a doctor from our Psych professor.”

“And also from a large number of monsters.  It’s very dangerous, and I’m very scared,” said Anya pleasantly.  “And we don’t know exactly where the doctor is.  But hey, you were able to do a locator spell.”

“Ooo, you could show me how…” said Willow.

“I don’t think I can locate someone I don’t know.” Tara frowned. “Not without something that belongs to him.  But if he’s in this … this place you’ve drawn … your maps look a little rough?”

“We do have something that used to belong to the doctor,” said Spike darkly.  “Soldier boy’s bits are exposed.  He might be able to fill in the map a bit, too.”

“I’ll go see if he’s conscious,” said Buffy, heading for the stairs. 

Tara watched Spike watch her go.  “What’s that on the back of your head?” 

Spike growled. “Something else that once belonged to the doctor.” 

 

***

 

“Riley, you know Willow,” said Buffy.  The man’s arm was draped over her shoulders, and it was clear as they came down the stairs that Buffy was supporting most of his weight. His shirt was open to make room for a large bandage.  “This is Spike, my fiancé.  And Xander, Anya, and Tara.”  

Tara wished she was somewhere else — but the newcomer wasn’t even looking at her.  “Hostile 17 — Buffy, he’s not human.”

“Yeah, we all kinda noticed that,” said Buffy, settling Riley into the empty chair at the table’s end with a little more force than necessary. 

“You’re marrying a—”

“Better-looking bloke than you,” filled in Spike.

“How can you be marrying _a vampire_?” Riley tried to rise, struggled a moment against Buffy’s arm, and gave up.

Anya rapped the table.  “The vampire is pretty,” said Anya.  “His name is _Spike_.  It’s rude to not use names for people who are right in front of you.”  She gestured at Riley’s chest.  “Also, the two of you really have a lot to bond over, what with the wind-up accoutrements.”

“At least mine was put in against my will,” said Spike.

“At least I’m _human_ ,” said Riley.

“Enough,” said Buffy.  “You’re both on the team.  You both need that doctor pronto.  And to get the doctor out of the Initiative, we need a better map.  But even if we somehow go down there and find him …”  She trailed off, her mind’s eye seeing those hordes of monsters in the smoky dark — what had Walsh written in her insane, archaic powerpoint?  “‘ _They will join us or expire’ …’_ ” she said softly.

“I for one don’t want to go down into a seething pit of mechanized demons,” said Anya.  “And I don’t want Xander to go.  It’s fine for _you_ to run up twenty flights of stairs with your super-legs — maybe.  But maybe you’ll die.  Or maybe just everyone who goes with you and can’t keep up will die.”

Willow rounded on her.  “Anya, why do you _say_ things like that?”

Anya looked at her, pinched. “Honesty’s the best policy.  I read it on a sampler.”

Willow stared at her for a long moment.  “Anya, have you been saying all these awful things because you think it’s what people want you to do?”

“If you’re following the rules, that’s what you do, right? And I need rules.” She shifted to catch Xander’s eye, and recited, “There’s a lot to learn about not being powerful, immortal and dedicated to vengeance.”  She smiled. 

There was a moment of silence.

“Okay, then,” said Riley.  “I’m not sure I’m actually awake right now.” 

“Welcome to our Sunnydale,” said Xander. 

“You’re awake,” said Buffy.  “You’re safe. We’re in my Watch— we’re in a friend’s apartment, not far from campus.  He’s away in England.”

“Well, that’s good, at least,” said Riley.  “No way for the Initiative to look up this address.”

“Why would they look up my address?”

“Right,” said Riley.  “No one knows you’re … wait.  Why are you …”  He looked around the table.  “Why are a bunch of teenagers talking about taking down the Initiative?”

“She’s a superhero,” said Tara, nodding toward Buffy.

“The Slayer,” said Spike.

“It's what I do,” said Buffy.  She leaned back against the table.  “Forrest saw me.  When I followed him that first time, and he broke and ran.”

“Forrest is with them,” said Riley.  “He was with them right away.  But it really is okay.  The school files would only have your dorm room and family home.”

“Family home,” repeated Buffy.

“ _Joyce_ ,” said Spike.   

 

***

  

“Next left!” called Buffy from where she sat beside Spike in the back seat.

“Shift,” said Tara, working the clutch.  Beside her in the center of the bench seat, Willow worked the stiff gear shift; they hadn’t ground the clutch once.  Tara leaned out the window to better judge the upcoming turn.  The night breeze felt like cool fingers in her hair. 

She was driving an elderly, hot-wired car with fancy fins, the windows down, most of the windshield obscured by black paint. Even with the windows open, there was a cigarette funk. The trunk was filled with an intimidating array of weapons and magical texts.  The vampire behind her cursed and cajoled her with easy vulgarity to take care of his car.  On the other side of Buffy, Xander was wisecracking to the mysterious ex-demon perched in his lap. Riley, in the passenger seat, was feeling either sick or just sullen.

She’d never felt so grounded, so much like she was in the right place — not since her mother had passed.  There was no chance that these people would react with horror when they found out she carried a demon inside. They’d probably be bored.

“Second house on the right!” said Buffy. 

Tara eased the big black car onto the twin strips of concrete that served as a driveway.

“Everything looks okay.  I’ll just run in and give her a little warning,” said Buffy. “Let me out, Xan.”

Xander and Anya got out.  They all watched as Buffy trotted up to the porch and disappeared inside.

In the car, Riley turned to Spike where he sat alone in the back seat.

“You don’t deserve her,” said Riley softly.

Spike looked at him and smiled, the most genuine expression Tara had seen on his face.

“Yeah,” said Spike.  “Who could?”


End file.
